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SCRIBNER S 



MAGAZINE 



PUBLISHED MONTHLY 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



VOLUME VIII JULY - DECEMBER 



W/c I 




CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS NEW YORK 
F.WARNE-uCS LONDON- 



COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS. 




TROWS 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS 



OF 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 

VOLUME VIII. JULY-DECEMBER, 1890. 



AFRICA. See Ivory, The Tale of a Tusk of; Slave Ship, 
the Last ; and AFRICA, in Vol. VII. 

AFRICAN RIVER AND LAKE SYSTEMS, . . . THOMAS STEVENS, . . . .335 
With a map. . 

ALLEN S, MR, ANXIETY, -. . 130 

AMERICAN NOMAD, THE, 396 

AMY ROBS ART, KENIL WORTH, AND WARWICK, WILLIAM H. RIDEING, . . 709 

Illustrations by W. L. Taylor. 

"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD," .... GEORGE A. HIBBARD, . . .721 

BASKET OF ANITA, THE, GRACE ELLERT CHANNING, . . 199 

Illustrated by Henry H. Sherk. 

BIRD CRADLES W. HAMILTON GIBSON, ... 41 

With illustrations from drawings by the author. 

CABLE EXPEDITION, WITH A, HERBERT LAWS WEBB, . . .399 

Illustrations by Burns, Fitler, W. L. Metcalf, and Dear 
born Gardiner. See ELECTRICITY, Vols. V , VI , and 
VII. 

CANON OF THE COLORADO, THROUGH THE 

GRAND, ROBERT BREWSTER STANTON, . 591 

Illustrations from photographs by the author, and by F. 

A. Nims, and from drawings by V. Perard, M. J. 

Burns, and W. C. Fitler. 

" CHRISTIE S," ......... HUMPHRY WARD, . 758 

Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 

CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST, THE JOHN W. ROOT, . . . .416 

Illustrated by H. Hawley and W. C. Fitler, and from 
photographs. See Homes in City Suburbs and Coun 
try. 

CLERK OF THE WEATHER, THE, . . . . T. R. SULLIVAN, . . . . 343 
COLORADO RIVER. See Canon of, Through the Grand. 

COUNTRY HOUSE, THE, DONALD G. MITCHELL, . . .313 

Illustrations by Woodward, Bacher, Perard, Hawley, 
and Fitler, and from photographs. See Homes in City 
Suburbs and Country. 

CROWN JEWEL, A HELIGOLAND, . C. EMMA CHENEY, . , .377 

Illustrations by Woodward, Pe rard, Fitter, and H. W. 
Hall, and from photographs. 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR, A, . . . . FRANK FRENCH, . . . .557 
Illustrations drawn and engraved by the author. 

DECLINE AND FALL ANNIE ELIOT, 225 

Illustrated by Frank Fowler. 

DEMOCRACY AND DISTINCTION, 393 

DR. MATERIALISM US, F. J. STIMSON, 547 

FEATHERS OF LOST BIRDS, . 132 

FRAY BENTO S BELL, . . . . " . . . CHARLES PAUL MAcKiE, . . 485 

FRENCH VIEW OF AMERICAN COLLEGE ATH 
LETICS, A, 525 

GALLEGHER A NEWSPAPER STORY, .... RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, . . 156 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 

GOOD NATURE AND THE IDEAL, 394 

HATTERAS AND HENLOPEN. See Sand- Waves at. 
HELIGOLAND. See Crown Jewel, A. 

HOMES IN CITY SUBURBS AND COUNTRY. See 

City House in the West ; Country House ; Suburban 
House; also City House in the JSast and South, Vol. 
VII , 693, and Co-operative Home Winning, Vol. VII , 
569. 

HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK, .... EDWARD MARSTON, . . . .210 
Illustration from drawing made at Cairo by Joseph Bell 
and by Lucien Davis. 

INELIGIBILITIES OF THE RICH, 526 

IN THE VALLEY Chapters XXXV -XXXVII. (Begun 

in September, 1889 concluded.) HAROLD FREDERIC, .... 81 

Illustration by Howard Pyle. 

IVORY, THE TALE OF A TUSK OF, . . . . HERBERT WARD, . . 531 

Illustrations by Frederic Villiers. 

JAPONICA FIRST PAPER JAPAN, THE COUNTRY, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, 663 

With frontispiece 1 The Plank Way to Benten Cave." 
Illustrations by Robert Blum. 

JERRY PART FIRST, Chapters VII -XV ; PART SECOND, 
Chapters I. -XVIII. ; PART THIRD, Chapters I.-III. 
(Begun in June, 1890 to be continued.} 20,184,284,437,569,774 

KENILWORTH. See Amy Robsart. 

LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND, THE, . NEWMAN SMYTH, 493 

Illustrated by J. D. Woodward and M. J. Burns. 

LITERATURE AND CHRISTMAS, . 789 

MAINE WOODS. See Lake Country of New England. 

MAN AND THE NEWSPAPER, THE, 793 

MECHANICAL CRITICISM, . . 658 

MEMORY OF THE WAR, 657 

MILLET AND RECENT CRITICISM, .... WALTER CRANSTON LARNED, . . 390 
MORELLI. See Neapolitan Art. 

MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN, . . RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 685 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 

NATIONAL THEATRE, A, .790 

NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA I , II , III , . N. S. SHALER, . . 360, 473, 645 

NEAPOLITAN ART MORELLI, . . . . . . A. F. JACASSY, . 735 

Illustrations by Domenico Morelli and A. F. Jacassy. 

NEW ENGLAND INGENUE, A, JOHN SEYMOUR WOOD 241 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 



OBSOLETE DISTINCTION, AN, 263 

PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS, THE, . . E. H. and E. W. BLASHFIELD 
With frontispiece u ExquiF 4 """ "* TV A -<--~ - ~ TI:,; " 
and other illustrations by 



With frontispiece " Exquisites of D Artagnan s Time," 
illustrations by E. H. Blashfield. 



CONTENTS. v 

PAGE 

PASSING OF A WEEK, THE, . . , . 263 

PASTORAL WITHOUT WORDS, A, .... HOWARD PYLE, .... 696 
(Twelve drawings. ) 

PLUMB IDIOT, THE, OCTAVE THANET, . . . .749 

Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf. 

POINT OP VIEW, THE. 

Allen s, Mr., Anxiety, 130. National Theatre, A, 790. 

American Nomad, The, 396. Obsolete Distinction, An, 262. 

Democracy and Distinction, 393. Passing of a Week, The, 2t>3. 

Feathers of Lost Birds, 132. Pursuit of Happiness, The, 130. 

French View of American College Athletics, A, 525. Running in Grooves, 791 . 

Good Nature and the Ideal, 394. Spartan Virtue, The, 659. 

Ineligibilities of the Rich, 526. Study of Heirs, A, 527. 

Literature and Christmas, 789. Sympathy in Authorship, 528. 

Man and the Newspaper, The, 792. Taking it Seriously, 129. 

Mechanical Criticism, 658. Tyranny of Things, The, 261. 

Memory of the War, 657. Wanted, A Manual, 395. 

PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, THE, .... MRS. SYLVANUS REED, . . .514 
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS, THE, 130 

RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN, THE. 

IV. To His OWN REPUTATION, E. L. GODKIN, 58 

V. To His OWN PROPERTY JAMES S. NORTON, . . . .307 

See, also, I As a Householder ; II As a User of the 
Public Streets ; III As a User of Public Conveyances, 
Vol. VII, 417, 625, 771. 

RUNNING IN GROOVES, 791 

SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS, . JOHN R. SPEARS, . . . .507 
Illustrated by Victor Perard. 

SENTIMENTAL ANNEX, A, H. C. BUNNER, 257 

SERGEANT GORE, LsRor ARMSTRONG, ... 173 

Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf. 

SLAVE-SHIP, THE LAST, GEORGE HOWE, M.D., . . .113 

SPARTAN VIRTUE, THE, 659 

STANLEY. See How Stanley Wrote his Book, " Emin 
Pasha Relief Expedition, The," Vol. VII., 662, and 
AFRICA. 

STUDY OF HEIRS, A, j 527 

SUBURBAN HOUSE, THE BRUCE PRICE, .... 3 

With illustrations by O. H. Bacher and C. F. Bragdon, 
and from photographs ; see Homes in City Suburbs 
and Country. 

SURF AND SURF-BATHING, DUFFIELD OSBORNE, . . .100 

Illustrations by W. S. Allen and M. J. Burns. 

SYMPATHY IN AUTHORSHIP, 528 

TAKING IT SERIOUSLY, . -. . . . . . 129 

THREE MUSKETEERS, THE. See Paris of. 

TRAINING OF A NURSE, THE, MARY CADWALADER JONES, . . 613 

TYRANNY OF THINGS, THE -. ... 261 

UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT, WITH, . RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 267 

With frontispiece " In the Morning Watch," and other 
illustrations by the author. 

UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS, OCTAVE THANET, .... 68 

WANTED, A MANUAL, . . 395 

WARWICK. See Amy Robsart. 

WHITE SQUADRON, FROM PORT TO PORT WITH 

THE . RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 453 

With frontispiece u Signalling to Moorings," and other 
illustrations by the author. 

YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS, WITH, RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 625 

Illustrations by the author. 



vi CONTENTS. 



POETRY. 

A DIALOGUE, . . . .... . . ANDREW LANG, . . . .155 

AUTUMN SONG, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 436 

CARDINAL NEWMAN Two SONNETS I. ... AUBREY DE VERB, . . . . 546 

II. ... INIGO DEANE, 546 

DIRGE, . . . FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN, . . 283 

5.59, . ....... . CHARLES F. LUMMIS, . . . 513 

FROM THE JAPANESE, . V" .... RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, . . 757 

FUGITIVES, . .... . GRAHAM R. TOMSON, . . .656 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE XIII To THE FOUNT BAN- 

DUSIA, 19 

With frontispiece u O Babbling Spring," by J. R. 
Weguelin. See also Horace, Vol. VII, 899. 

[Austin Dobson s Translation in rondeau form. Re 
printed by permission. J 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE IX THE LOVERS QUARREL, 415 

With frontispiece "The Lovers Quarrel," by J. R. 
Weguelin. 

[Mr. Gladstone s Translation. Reprinted by permis 
sion.] 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE XXIX To MAECENAS The 

Translation by HELEN LEAH REED, . . . 683 

This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered an 
nually to the students of Harvard University. 

HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA, THE ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, . . 95 

Illustrations drawn from Mr. Stevenson s photographs . 

IN BROCELIANDE, . ..-.. 643 

IN GLAD WEATHER, CHARLES B. GOING, . . . .112 

LADY HANNAH, THE A BALLAD OF CAPTAIN KIDD, JAMES HERBERT MORSE, . . .772 

LIFE AND NATURE, . -. ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN, . . .556 

OLD AGE, . . . . C. P. CRANCH 435 

PITY, O GOD! GRACE ELLERY CHANNING, . .388 

REED PLAYER, THE, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 720 

RENUNCIATION, . . . .... . . EMILY DICKINSON, .... 240 

REVISITING A GREEN NOOK, . . . . . ANNIE FIELDS, . . . .473 

SEASON S BOON THE, . . . . . . . G . MELVILLE UPTON, 223 

Illustrated by J. H. Twachtman. 

SHfiKH ABD ALLAH, THE . . CLINTON SCOLLARD, 358 

Illustrations by Chester Loomis and Kenyon Cox. 

SISTERS TRAGEDY, THE-A.D. 1670^ .... THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, 181 

With ornamental designs by Kenyon Cox. 

TO THE CRICKET, ." . A. LAMPMAN, .... 8 

VAGRANT LOVE-A RONDEL, . . . . . . LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, . 484 

WHERE SHE COMES, CHARLES B. GOING, . 357 

WINE OF LUSITANIA, ... . , . EDITH M. THOMAS, . 493 




BT J. K. WEGUELIN. 



"O BABBLING SPRING." 

[Horace, Book III., Ode XIII.] 

(See page 19.) 



ENGRAVED BT HENRY WOLF. 




SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. vni. 



JULY, 1890. 



No. 1. 




THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 

By Bruce Price. 



DURING the last century, and the 
first half of the present one, coun 
try life in America had assumed a 
popular and well-defined existence, and 
through all the old Atlantic States nu 
merous seats and homes had been built 
that were distinctive and beautiful in 
character. Many of these, upon the 
larger estates and in the suburbs of the 
great cities, were of such size and com 
manding proportions as to be really 
mansions. But throughout the country 
generally, and particularly in and about 
the important towns and villages, were 
numerous quiet and well- designed homes 
resting in their own grounds. 

The life in these homes during this 
period was quite as characteristic as the 
homes themselves. In the country towns 
of Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, 
and the New England States, lived a 
charming people, who in their ample 
way dispensed a broad hospitality and 
made a society, intelligent, refined, and 



almost chivalric in its intercourse. But 
the progress and development of the 
country set many influences at work 
upon the disintegration of this life. 
The spread of the great cities razed 
many of the fine suburban houses ; the 
division of property broke up the coun 
try estates and reduced the town s. The 
war told upon both, and with the wider, 
broader, more nervous life that followed 
upon the restoration of peace, the old 
life soon became almost a myth. Com 
merce, business, and the race for wealth 
at once engaged the whole nation ; the 
cities filled and grew, and the country 
fell away year by year. 

The fashion, almost universal at this 
time with city people, was to spend a 
few days, or weeks at most, during the 
heated term, at the great hotels of 
" the springs," " the summer resort," or 
the sea-shore. There were many, of 
course, who, loving the country, sought 
its quiet, and roughed it on a farm, and 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



a few others who built, and passed their 
summers in villas in the suburban coun 
try. 

But from the whirl and heat of the 
city, the summer hotel, with its artificial 
life and huddling quarters, was a poor 
resource, and early in the seventies the 
country cottage a cheap frame nonde 
script, without cellar or plumbing be 
gan to appear. These cottages were for the 
most part very simple affairs, built with 
steep roofs and shallow verandas, and 
called Gothic. They were the forerun 
ners of a movement that took, at the time, 
the form almost of a craze. Cramped 
in the confined quarters of their city 




t Tacoma, Wash. 



houses, with children growing up about 
them, numbers looked to the country 
and longed for some place where they 
could have free air and abundant room. 
The fever of this desire spread like an 
epidemic and developed the epoch of 
the suburban villa cities, with amazing 
results. About the outlying towns near 
the great northern cities large tracts of 
country were laid out in villa sites and 
coursed with avenues and boulevards, 
paved and curbed, and bordered with 
sickly infantile elms and maples. Block 
upon block of " villas " sprang up, hide 
ous structures of wood, covered with 
jig-sawed work, with high stoops, and 
capped with the lately im 
ported so - called French 
roof ; all standing in their 
own grounds and all planned 
upon the same motif- a city 
house planted in the coun 
try. The traveller n earing 
New York or Philadelphia 
went through acres of these 
villas in all stages of prog 
ress, from the raw boards to 
the gorgeous primary reds, 
yellows, and greens in which 
their cheap, vulgar details 
were glaringly set off. 

These villa cities were 
short-lived ; the Centennial 
Exposition at Philadelphia 
soon following, brought our 
people together and showed 
them many truths. It tau ght 
them that back of all the 
uses of life there could be 
art in everything. One beau 
tiful truth fell upon many, 
Colcott s group of English 
cottages, the head-quarters 
of the English Commission 
to the Exposition, built in 
half-timbered and shingled 
work, revealed how lovely a 
thing a cottage could be 
when built with artistic in 
telligence. The influence of 
these buildings upon both 
the public and professional 
mind was, at the time, very 
great. They showed us not 
only the ugliness and unfit- 
ness of the French -roof villa, 
but taught us to appreciate, 



6 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



from the example of their own fitness, 
the merit and beauty of our national 
work about us on all sides. Colcott, in 
England, for his inspiration had gone 



others, feeling the beauty of such places, 
built upon their lines. 

And so the tide turned. The migra 
tion back to the country annually be- 



back to the best period of his own na- came greater and greater, until now, 
tional homes. His contemporaries were whether these homes are to be per- 




House at Morristown, N. J. 
(McKim, Mead, & White, Architects.) 



doing the same. The good of the old 
was being revived there ; and soon the 
good in the old with us was sought out 
and studied. 

Men whose paths led them through 
our older towns could not but contrast 
their quiet beauty with the vulgar in 
congruity of these mushroom " villa ci 
ties." Their broad, turf-bordered roads, 
with avenues of great trees spanning 
the way from side to side ; and the 
old white houses, simple in form, re 
fined in detail, broad and generous in 
plan and treatment ; with the yard in 
front, the garden at rear, the one filled 
with rose-trees, oleanders, rose-of- 
Sharon bushes, and box-bordered walks, 
the other with fruit-trees and hedges, 
and garden-beds and borders of holly 
hocks or sunflowers. Many, going into 
the nearer accessible towns, found these 
old homes and made them theirs ; while 



manent or for the summer only, the 
problem, how properly to build them, is 
a fixed one for the architect, and fills 
his thoughts and crowds his boards. 
Climate and habits of life have clearly 
marked for him the bounds of the 
problem. The modest cottage of a few 
years ago, built to rough it in through 
the hot days of summer, gives place to 
the more hospitable home of to-day. 
This home must be snug and comfort 
able, with broad hearth stones and warm 
walls to shield its tenants through the 
biting days of autumn and winter. The 
heat of summer demands shady porches 
and wide verandas ; the cold of winter 
snug corners and sunny rooms two op 
posite conditions to be reconciled under 
the same roof. The rooms must be wide, 
with through drafts inviting the cooling 
winds of summer, yet low studded and 
shielded against the blasts of winter. 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



The house must be ample for summer 
guests and summer hospitality, com 
pact for the family gathering around 
the winter fireside, and home-like at all 
times. 

And these homes what are they now 
and what shall they be ? Passing them 
in review we have a retrospect of about 
fourteen years. The movement taking 
form, as we have seen, about the Centen 
nial year, matured as we know it to-day. 
In viewing the work of this period it is 
not to the point to consider the larger es 
tablishments of Newport, Mount Desert, 
Lenox, or the great places that have been 
raised up all through different parts of 
the country ; it is either the permanent 
home or the summer residence of the 
man of moderately independent means 
that interests us houses costing from 
five to twenty thousand dollars. 

In all this work the scheme of the 
plan, whether the cost be of the less or 
greater amount, is now almost identical. 

The ordinary older cottages, those of 
a quarter of a century ago, were generally 
planned with a single entrance facing 
the approach ; this opened from a porch 
into a passage rather than a hall, with 
the stairways starting a few paces within 



kitchen beyond the other. Between 
the last two came the butlery and ser 
vants stairs, and the back-door, which 
usually in the family life of the oc 
cupants became the thoroughfare to and 
from the house. This, pure and simple, 
was the general plan from which the 
house of to-day started. Step by step 
it developed. First the passage was at 
tacked, and being broadened became a 
hall ; the staircase fell away from near 
the threshold to a less obtrusive place, 
with landings and returns, and windows 
opening upon them. As the hall grew, 
the parlor, as its uses and purposes were 
more absorbed by the hall, became of 
less importance. The fireplace became a 
prominent feature, and placed in the hall 
and more elaborately treated, became 
an ingle-nook, with the mantel over it, 
forming an imposing chimney-piece. Im 
proving thus its separate features upon 
the old, the newer plan advanced further 
in the disposition of these features. The 
new hall having become broad and am 
ple, and the rendezvous and seat of the 
home life, took its position in the most 
desirable place in the advanced plan. 
The house grew up about it, following 
with the other features and details in 




House at Cumberland, Md. 
(Notman, Architect.) 



and running straight up against the side- 
wall to the floor above ; the parlor and 
library to right and left, with the 
dining-room beyond the one and the 



their proper sequence, until now, from 
the sum of all that has been done, the 
resulting general plan, with its control 
ling conditions of site, can be adduced. 



8 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



Resolving these conditions of site again 
into general conditions, the result of 
both is this : to plan and place the house 



time. And so it is important to keep 
these features separate. 

As all sites are not alike, so all plans 




Cottage at Newport, R. I. 
(Price, Architect.) 



upon its site so that the approach and 
entrance-door shall be upon one side 
and the lawn and living rooms upon the 
opposite. Stating it directly, the best 
work enables us to approach by a drive 
upon one side, alight at an entrance- 
porch, enter by an entrance-hall, ad 
vance thence into the hall, and through 
it out upon the veranda, and so on upon 
the lawn. This is the simple result, and 
the reason is as simple. The entrance is 
for access ; the hall, veranda, lawn, and 
the prospect beyond, belong to the pri 
vate life of the house. Tradesmen or 
visitors, however welcome, cannot be 
dropped into the midst of the family 
group. Even the welcome guest wishes 
to cross the threshold and meet the out 
stretched hand and cordial greeting 
within. Even Liberty Hall must have 
its defence. 

If the road to the house crosses the 
lawn and comes at once upon the hall, 
veranda, and seat of the home life, the 
home life is open to intrusion at any 



cannot be alike ; but knowing the site 
and studying well the access to and the 
prospect from it, the intelligent archi 
tect can readily arrange his plan to suit. 
If the approach is from the north, and 
the site falls off gradually to the south, 
with the view toward that quarter, then 
the solution of the problem is simple and 
direct and at its best. The house is placed 
well to the northern boundary, leaving 
it sufficiently away from the thorough 
fare to insure privacy and space for the 
turn of the drive. The greater portion 
of the site is thus given to the lawn 
upon the south side. The house is 
placed with its long axis east and west, 
its approach and entrance upon the 
north side, its living rooms, hall, veranda, 
and lawn upon the south, and it stands 
thus in itself a barrier between the tur 
moil of the world and the peace and 
privacy within and beyond its portals. 

If the site commands the south, and 
the approach is from that quarter also, 
the drive must be thrown to the east or 



10 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



west extreme, and, continuing well be 
yond the plane of the house, must circle 
either at the end for the entrance or be 
brought fully around to the north side 
and the entrance made there. The road 
must also be shielded with plantations 
and shrubbery. 

Of course apart from these consider 
ations of approach and outlook, every 
site has its other conditions of exposure, 
etc. The prevailing winds in summer 
and winter must be studied. It may 
have, upon one hand, an ugly prospect, or 
upon another, a disagreeable neighbor ; 
there are many points, in fact, to be care 
fully weighed, and many characteristics 
of its own calling for skill and judgment. 
But with its disadvantages the site must 
still have its good points or it is not a 
site, and as the architect overcomes the 
former and avails of the latter, so much 



stands its values, just in that proportion 
will be the success of his result. 

Such is the proper house, where a 
site of some extent, comparatively iso 
lated, and open to the surrounding coun 
try can be chosen. 

But when the site lies in the midst of 
other properties already built upon, and 
possessing in common with them only 
the single outlook to the front, then the 
conditions of the problem require that 
the house shall be planned with its main 
approach and living rooms alike upon 
this single open front. Even so, unless 
the lot is very narrow, a house such as is 
shown, with its grounds, in the plan on 
p. 4 of a house at Tacoma, commends it 
self as still possessing, though hemmed 
in on three sides by residences and out 
buildings, all the salient advantages of 
a house built in an open country. 




House at Kenwood, III. 
(Burnham & Root, Architects.) 



the greater is his credit and skill, for he Here the house is placed well over 
will discover that in proportion as he upon one side of the lot ; the carriage- 
studies and knows his site and under- drive and walk are over against the 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



11 



other ; the entrance-hall is at the rear 
of the library, with the entrance and en 
trance-porch at the side. In the angle 
of the house there is room for the turn 
in the drive. The grounds in front of 



at one corner of the front (as in the 
Long Island house), with the hall in the 
centre and the living porch upon the 
opposite corner, would give a plan meet 
ing many of the above requirements. 




House at Evanston, III. 
(Burnham & Koot, Architects.) 



the porch are terraced, and bordering 
the walk from the angle of the ter 
race to the en trance- porch are beds of 
flowers and plantations of low shrub 
bery. The house, with its porch and 
principal rooms thus commanded by 
the approach and the highway, is yet so 
planned and placed upon the site as to 
be in no way dominated by them. [See 
p. 14] 

A house built upon grounds on Long 
Island, required, from the nature of its 
site, a scheme of plan similar to the Ta- 
coma house, with the difference that the 
entrance is at the front corner. It 
would be well suited for such a situa 
tion as the one above described is built 
upon. 

If the site is too narrow for the drive 
and entrance at the side, the approach, 
entrance-porch, and entrance arranged 



But building sites laid out in nests of 
lots are usually narrow, and give, at best, 
to the sides of the houses built upon 
them only light and air spaces. Upon 
these the house is generally built across 
the middle of the lot, sitting back a 
rod or two from the road, with a walk 
leading from a gate in the middle of the 
front. Another gate and walk at one 
side, for tradesmen and servants, leads 
to the rear. For such conditions of 
site the problem of plan has many so 
lutions. 

A house recently built at Tuxedo [p. 
3] would meet this problem very fairly. 
In this house the entrance is made at 
once at the centre into the hall. The 
porch stretches across the entire front 
and extends a space beyond at either 
side. Thus exedras are formed at the 
ends and give the desired living porches 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



13 



away from the centre and removed from 
the intrusion of the entrance. 

Also a house at Morristown, N. J. [p. 
6], built by Mr. McKim some years since, 
gives an excellent solution of this " de 
fence against the highway " idea. This 
house, apart from its planning and plac 
ing, is a most successful bit of shingle 
work, designed upon old colonial lines. 

Many of the old-time houses, built 
upon such lots, are models of proper 
planning. A house in Cumberland, Md. 
[p. 7], is, in some respects, the most de 
lightfully arranged home I know. It was 
built in the early forties from drawings 
by Notman. The site is upon a hill falling 
off sharply to the rear, with a prospect 
at the back of the town below, and the 
mountains, and narrows between them, 
in the distance. The house is practically 
one-storied, and the charm of the plan 



Through the centre, from front to rear, 
runs the hall, fifteen feet wide and sixty 
feet long from door to door. Upon 
this hall open all the living rooms ; at 
the front, .on the right, is the parlor ; on 
the left, the library. Beyond the parlor, 
on the one side, are the family bed 
chambers, and beyond the library, on 
the other, comes first a guest-chamber, 
then the pantry and stair-hall, and the 
dining-room at the rear. In the roof 
are additional bedrooms, and in the 
rear basement is the kitchen, laundry, 
etc. Across the back of the house runs 
a wide porch, with a broad stair leading 
down to the lawn and gardens. 

The quarters, or servants building, 
was separate and to the left and rear of 
the main house. With the works of 
over a half century to judge it by, I do 
not see how a better plan could be de- 




House at Cincinnati, O 
(Trowbridge, Architect.) 



the is the directness and simplicity of its 
treatment. 

The long axis of the house is with 
the length of the lot, north and south. 



vised for the site. Certain changes and 
improvements, notably in the plumbing, 
heating, and lighting, have been made at 
times by the present owner, but the body 



14 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



of the house is intact as Notman left it, 
classical in proportion, simple in outline, 
and refined in detail. There are num 
bers of inclosed lots about the suburbs 
of New York where just such a house 
could be charmingly placed. 

In comparing architecturally the work 
of to-day with that of the various build 
ers from colonial times up to Notman 
and his contemporaries, it would seem 
that their best work, being based strictly 
upon the study of classic proportions, 
would outlive the mass of ours. And this 
for the simple reason that mere novelties 
will not wear well. In architecture more 
than in any other art, the work must 
commend itself for some other reason 
than its cleverness or originality, or it 
will very early wear out its welcome. 
" Quaint," " novel," " picturesque," are 
terms freely used about us to-day, and 
" architectural," rarely. 

The old builders were architectural, 
first and always, and quaint was perhaps 
as far as they ever got beyond that. It 
is not maintained that there is nothing 



too, and picturesque and beautiful and 
original, and will last. But it will last 
because its motive is purely and archi 
tecturally expressed and based upon ar 
tistic principles stronger than the orig 
inality of its handling. 

The old builders, though their works 
were at times dull and meagre and thin, 
were yet never undignified, never out 
rageous, and never forsook the idea that 
their work had a definite purpose and 
that that purpose must be expressed in 
it. In the Long Island, Tacoma, and 
Tuxedo houses it was with a thought of 
the old builders and their purposes that 
they were designed. The gambrel and 
deep roofs are much as they made them, 
and the entablature and columns are as 
the rules of the orders give them. 

The Tacoma house, the Armistead cot 
tage at Newport [p. 8], and the Tuxedo 
house, the writer considers a fair solution, 
architecturally and picturesquely, of the 
problem of the suburban home of mod 
erate pretensions. Other examples are 
numerous ; notably Mrs. Stoughton s 
house at Cambridge, Mass. [p. 9], one 
of Richardson s de 
signs, though built 
of shingle in the 
simplest way, is in 
plan, mass, and 
treatment, one of 
his best works. In 
two instances of 




House at Tacoma, Wash. 

in the new equal to the old, or noth 
ing good that is not based upon some 
older model ; or nothing good that is 
quaint in its effect, and both novel and 
picturesque as well. On the contrary, 
there is abundance in the new, superior 
in every way to the old, and architects 
greater and abler than the old ; and 
much of their work is quaint and novel 



suburban houses by Messrs. Burnham & 
Root, near Chicago [pp. 10 and 11], the 
architects have met the problem most 
fairly, and show in their picturesque 
composition that the thought of the 
home was first and most important. 
Of the quaint and artistic smaller 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



15 



cottage, two examples, most opposite in 
their motif and materials, yet both 
equally delightful in their architectural 
results, are seen in the house at Short 
Hills, N. J. [p. 12], built by Mr. Charles 



any of its forerunners upon the borders 
of the Loire or among the hills of Eng 
land. 

The Megalithical houses, of which 
Richardson s famous Gate Lodge upon 




English Suburban House. 
(Norman Shaw Architect.) 



A. Rich, for himself, and the other in 
the suburbs of Cincinnati [p. 13], built 
by Mr. Trowbridge. 

Of houses of greater pretensions the 
field is full. The Osborn house at Ma- 
maroneck [p. 5] may be taken as an 
example of the best of this type. The 
approach is from the land side. The 
house is entered from a porte-cochere 
through its centre. The division of its 
features is in perfect sequence. Ah 1 the 
living rooms and verandas are upon 
the water side ; the offices and entrances 
upon the other. The home life is per 
fectly defended and protected. Archi 
tecturally the work is handled with 
great dignity and art. Its materials are 
rough granite and cedar shingles, and 
though born of a French motif it is 
the exponent of no style. It is moulded 
to the needs of its uses, and the result is 
a genuine American art creation, as good 
in itself and as honest in its purpose as 



the Ames estate near Boston was per 
haps the first example, appeal strongly 
to the original bent of the American 
mind. The Lodge and Keep at the 
main gates of Tuxedo are built of the 
mossy and weather-beaten rocks and 
boulders found upon the slopes of the 
park. These are set into the walls with 
out tool marks or fractures, and the 
beds and joints chocked with rock 
moss. The house built at Boulder Point, 
upon Tuxedo Lake, is a fair type of this 
sort. The house stands upon a cliff pro 
jecting into the lake, and its walls are 
carried up with the same character of 
rock as the cliff. The starting-courses 
are of the largest rocks that could be 
handled, and above, they grow smaller 
as they approach the top. Great skill 
is shown in the execution of the work. 
The stones are all selected with flat 
faces and fitted one against the other 
with great patience and care, and the 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



17 



result is the appearance of cyclopean 
masonry centuries old. In arrange 
ment, though the house is planned to 
overcome the many difficulties of its 
site, the principle of the separation of 
the approaches from the living quarters, 
etc., is maintained. 

In the details of the interior of the 
house of to-day, the hall, and especially 
its fireplace, has received much attention. 
The " ingle-nook " has been taken up 
and treated in many ways, amply and 
beautifully, and the impression is cur 
rent that with us it is entirely a modern 
idea. Such is not the case. In an old 
house in Maryland, built long before the 
Revolution, the hall was of unusual size 
so large, in fact, that the owner 
boasted that he could (and on a wager, 
did) turn a four-in-hand in it. On one 
side was an enormous fireplace, with 
benches built out at the sides of the 
jambs, and large enough to seat quite a 
company. This fireplace was unique. 
It was built of stone, broad and deep, 
with a heavy lintel over it ; above this 
lintel was a niche with a separate flue 
from it, and here in the evening, knots 
of fat pine were heaped and burned, and 
the great hall was by this means brill 
iantly lighted. The old house has long 
since crumbled and rotted away, but the 
ruins of the old fireplace still mark the 
site. This house had at the time the 
title of being the finest one in western 
Maryland. Its claims to distinction rested 
upon the fact that the ends of the logs 
of which it was built were sawed off, 
and its roof was covered with shingles. 

Viewing American houses from a 
stand-point of style, there is as marked 
a character in the artistic handling as in 
the planning of them. 

The most distinctive national suburban 
house is undoubtedly the shingle house ; 
that is, the cottage, however great or 
small, built of frame and covered on 
sides and roof with shingles, plain or 
ornamented as the case may be. Next 
in importance is the stone or brick and 
shingle house combined ; that is, the 
house with the ground story of stone or 
brick and the upper structure of frame 
and shingles. 

The old colonial houses cannot be con 
sidered in connection with the shingle 
VOL. VIII. 2 



houses of to-day. The old colonial 
houses were in all the best examples 
built upon classic lines, with a classic 
base for all their details and a classic 
feeling in their outlines. 

The shingle house, while it has been 
recently taking a decided old colonial 
form, both in general and in detail, and 
is very distinctive in plan, began in a pic 
turesque desire to be novel and quaint, 
and aimed to impress the beholder 
with these qualities as well as its orig 
inality above everything. That it ran 
riot, and is still doing so, there can be 
no mistake. But out of it all there is 
a lot of splendid work. To enumerate 
it or classify it is not within the scope 
of this article, but I am impressed with 
the conviction and believe in the thought 
that in the planning, designing, and 
building of the moderate-cost suburban 
villa of to - day, the American architect 
has no equal. I believe his work is well 
above and beyond any period of the 
school anywhere. Of course, I mean his 
best work. There is much that is bad, 
very bad ; there have been many condi 
tions to make it so. Vulgar and ambi 
tious clients, uncultivated draughtsmen, 
who, gifted with clever manual dex 
terity (and our draughtsmen are getting 
to be very, very clever as such), set up 
as architects ; nouveaux riches, who 
gauge the beauty of their house by its 
cost ; these and many other conditions 
produce inevitably their results. But 
when the client and his architect are in 
accord, the one to the manner born and 
the other a part of it, the results are no 
ble and true. 

Out of the abundance I select one 
house in particular, as the forerunner, 
to my mind, of the type of shingle houses 
that have since become so distinctively 
an American class. It must be now ten 
or twelve years since Mr. Victor New- 
combe built his house at Elberon [p. 16]. 
It is certainly that long since I first saw 
it. I was driving from Sea Girt to Long 
Branch at the time, and, unaware of its 
existence, came suddenly upon it. The 
whole scheme, form, and treatment of the 
house were new to me, and I looked upon 
it with mingled feelings of surprise and 
pleasure. Mr. McKim has since done 
greater work, and others have done as 
good ; for " Facilis est inventus addere," 



18 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



and many have profited thereby. But 
when I saw it first it was new and 
stood alone, the first of its class ; and 
that it was true, the numbers that fol 
lowed it and went beyond it soon showed. 
I have passed this house many times 
since, and to me it is as good a piece of 
work to-day as when I first saw it. 

But Mr. McKim was not the only 
one. Mr. Bassett Jones, fresh from the 
studio and influence of Norman Shaw, 
had built one or two lovely cottages 
on Staten Island. Mr. William Ralph 
Emerson had done likewise about Bos 
ton and at Bar Harbor. Mr. Jones s 
work was inspired by the Queen Anne 
revival then starting up in England, but 
so modified and adapted under his skil 
ful treatment as to be distinctively his 
own. Mr. Emerson s work was more 
distinctive still, and went farther than 
either Mr. McKim s or Mr. Jones s in its 
individuality. While Mr. McKim, Mr. 
Jones, and others clothed their frame 
buildings with clap-boards to the height 
of the first story and shingled them the 
rest of the way up, Mr. Emerson started 
his shingles over the entire house at 
the water-table, and gained a step in 
repose that the other houses had not 
reached. 

But the Queen Anne revival in Eng 
land, from which all this work started, 
was so different in its motives, both in 
the use of materials and disposition 
of the plan, that the American cousin 
soon lost all family resemblance. One 
of the best examples of this English 
work, built from designs of Norman 
Shaw, is shown in the illustration of an 
English suburban house on p. 15. It is 
delightful in composition, is essentially 
a home, and meets exactly the English 
idea of one ; raise it from the ground, 
put a veranda around it, and transplant 
it to New York, and its congruity is 
destroyed. 

Under such conditions and aided in 
his work by the increasing knowledge 
and higher cultivation of our intelligent 
people in all matters pertaining to art, 
the American architect of to-day finds 
his great opportunity to found an Amer 
ican style. That the American country- 
house has become distinctive in becom 
ing suited to our economies and habits 
of life is clear. Our wants call for new 



forms in plan and masses; our mate 
rials for new lines and textures in eleva 
tions ; and with our national inven 
tiveness fostered by the problem, our 
work becomes more and more national. 
All these conditions demand original 
thought and hard study ; and bending 
the mind and talents to answering them 
must produce distinctive results. 

The feeling of the old may survive, 
but the style of the prototype has been 
bent to the homes we live in, and in 
bending yields to a new form. The 
new form, begun in a friendly school, 
will often borrow from a sympathetic 
type, and the result, while neither of the 
two, yet is true to both ; true to its 
new conditions and good withal. And 
so the American architect is passing 
into his incipient Renaissance, copying 
less from the masters he has studied 
and reveres, and dropping the word 
style from his practice. How that word 
rises up ; a frowning spectre to some, 
a safeguard to many ! How can the 
American practitioner be true to it ? 
Will his client have a replica from Italy, 
from France, or even from England ? 
Will he build and live in a Scotch fast 
ness, with high, draughty halls, ill lit 
from narrow windows, flood his moat, 
haul up his bridge, and lower his port 
cullis with the chiming of the vesper 
bells ? Will he plant his roof-tree upon 
the walls of a French manoir, give up 
his ground floor to carriage-drive and 
flunkies quarters and live above stairs ? 
Will he give up his shady porches, his 
wide verandas, his broad piazzas, and 
take the style he asks for in the lit 
eral truth of its examples ? There are 
none of these, as he knows and needs 
them, in the great schools from which 
he -would borrow a name for his cot 
tage. True there are verandas in Italy, 
and loggias, too, in both Italy and 
France that lend ideas and beauti 
fully they have been used. But Amer 
ican life could not thrive could not 
exist, indeed housed in any of the 
buildings upon which these are found. 
American country life has marked out 
its current broad, clear, well defined. 
It has its source in a thousand well- 
springs deep down in the national char 
acter. Hampered with no traditions, 
with a quick perception of his wants, 



TO THE FOUNT BANDUSIA. 19 

an innate love of the beautiful, indepen- giving to the life of the day one of its 
dent and practical, the American must most distinctive features. In all the 
inevitably show his national traits in rush, in the marvellous phases that have 
his home. Scattered apart or grouped marked the growth and progress of our 
together, upon the hills, in valleys, and wonderful epoch, there is nothing so 
along the streams that wander through impressive in the city s life as this daily 
them to the ocean, or perched upon the coming and going throng. It is a vivid 
bluffs and beaches that mark its boun- expression of that American trait which 
daries, for encircling miles about our inspires every man, no matter how sub- 
great cities, have sprung up, and are ordinate his position in the business 
still rising, the true homes of the Amer- world, to assert his individuality and 
ican of to-day. From them and to them independence by owning a home which 
a great tide ebbs and flows, and pours is the outgrowth of his special tastes 
over the ferries, by the cars, and along and needs. Amid the pretences and 
the great water-ways every day. Never shams of which American life is often 
ceasing, this torrent pours in and pours accused, this at least has the instinct of 
out, stronger and greater year by year, truth, and an honest purpose. 



HORACE, BOOK III., ODE XIII. 

TO THE FOUNT BANDUSIA. 

[O fons Bandusiae.] 

Austin Dobsori s Translation in Rondeau Form. Reprinted by permission with Mr. Weyueliii s 

drawing [frontispiece]. 

O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, 

Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, 
To-morrow shall a kid be thine 
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, 

Sure si<m ! of loves and battles near. 



"O" 



Child of the race that butt and rear ! 
Not less, alas ! his life-blood dear 

Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, 
O babbling Spring ! 

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer 
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, 
The wandering flock. This verse of mine 
Will rank thee one with founts divine ; 
Men shall thy rock and tree revere, 

O babbling Spring ! 



JERRY. 



PART FIRST (CONTINUED). 



CHAPTEE VII. 

Tlie steadfast silence that holds peace for 

wrong 

Or love that keeps the smile on quivering lips ; 
That holds the tears back from the brave, sad 

eyes ; 

That with a steady hand doth sod the grave 
Of all its hopes, so none may know a grave 
Is there ! 

ALONG, low, frame house, unpaint- 
ed, and weather-beaten, standing 
a little back from the road that at 
this point turned, and became the one 
street of Durden s. A house without 
the very smallest attempt at beauty 
that fulfilled but one end a shelter. 

The main shed, extending straight 
down from the apex of the roof, takes 
under its protection a broad piazza, in 
whose shadowy depths the doors and 
windows of the house open. 

The windows are glazed, which is a 
luxury in the town of Durden s ; but the 
doors and blinds are simply battened, 
like the rest of the houses. 

Three chimneys come from the roof, 
one from either end and one from the 
middle ; wonderfully square and ugly, 
but softened to the view on this cool 
September day by slender plumes of 
smoke. A thin rail extends round the 
piazza save where a clear space is left for 
the steps, at the corner of which stands 
a hitching-post for horses. The reddish- 
brown soil of the yard is baked to the 
consistency of brick, rising and falling 
in mimic ravines and hills as the rain is 
pleased to wash it. No sign of a fence 
no sign of paint or whitewash any 
where no vestige of any attempt at 



flower, or shrub, or grass an ugly, bar 
ren, neglected place. 

In a high-backed, splint-bottomed 
rocking-chair, with his feet on the hand 
rail that goes about the piazza, a boy 
sits reading ; delicately made and fair, 
and with a finish in his dress and bear 
ing that shows familiarity with localities 
very different from Durden s, Indeed, 
he looks entirely out of place in this 
rough environment, and seems perfectly 
to realize the unfitness of things. 

Evidently he is very tired ; but only 
of himself and his book, for no work can 
ever have soiled his white hands nor 
hardened his delicate muscles ; yet he 
yawns and stretches very wearily, clasp 
ing his hands behind his head. 

"A beastly hole," he muttered. "I 
shall be cross-eyed if I read any more," 
but yet, for lack of other interest, he 
takes up his book again. The shapely 
head bends forward, the long lashes 
shade the girlish cheeks where a little 
flush has come from the exertion of the 
last yawn, and the boy is beautiful. No 
other word would describe him ; indeed 
one would not be tempted to fit any other 
adjective to him. 

And the doctor, riding up and tying 
his horse, thinks how different this face 
is from the other he left up on the 
mountain side. 

The boy rises. 

" At last ! " he says, coming forward, 
"I thought you might possibly spend 
the night." 

"Scarcely ; I waited only to watch the 
case." 

" And how is the case ? " yawning 
again. 



JERRY. 



21 



" Progressing favorably." 

"Unlike your humble servant," turn 
ing to follow the doctor indoors. 

The doctor paused to hang up his 
saddle-bags and hat, then turned to look 
at the boy. 

"You look in good case," he said. 

" My face is my fortune, " looking 
up with a smile that made this same face 
brilliant, " but really, I am nearly dead 
of loneliness ; and at noon a letter from 
mamma ; a letter a month old, but tell 
ing of the most enchanting things ; 
really, you know ! " with an earnest, re 
gretful look in his beautiful eyes. 

The doctor listened quietly, watching 
the boy s face, that seemed to charm him 
against his will. 

"It is very unfortunate," he said, 
gravely, then went into a fire-lighted 
room, where a table was laid for two, and 
a servant in waiting. 

"Dinner at once," he said, "and a 
fire in the study ; " then sitting down in 
the great arm-chair he turned to the 
boy, who stood near a window. "Is 
there any news, Paul ? " he asked. 

" Nothing, except no end of balls, and 
lunches, and lovely art exhibitions, and 
operas, and concerts, and everything 
that can make a fellow long to go home ; 
and I go everywhere with mamma, don t 
you know ; I wish you knew her," the 
boy added, slowly. 

" Yes," and the doctor leaned his 
head back as if this precocious child 
worried him. 

"Yes," Paul went on, drawing a letter 
from his pocket " and she sends you a 
message." 

The creamy paper rustled in the boy s 
hands ; a faint perfume floated on the 
air, and the words came softly " I miss 
you more than I can say, and long for 
you with a longing that I hope you may 
never realize. Would it not be possible 
to persuade your guardian to come home 
with you some time this winter, so that 
I can see you ? " pausing and looking 
steadfastly at the doctor ; but there was 
no movement, and he read on " Thank 
him for me for all his care of you ; I 
know he will do whatever is best for 
you, and, in the highest sense of the 
word, make a man of you, " the boy 
stopped, folding the letter slowly. 

" Thank you," came coldly from the 



doctor, and he passed his hands wearily 
over his eyes. 

" Did you ever know her?" the boy 
asked, hesitatingly, after a moment s 
silence. 

"Yes." 

Then the dinner and lights came in, 
and the conversation ceased. 

The meal was rather silent, and after 
ward the evening in the book-lined study 
seemed rather cold and still. The les 
sons went on without much heart, drag 
ging heavily ; with cold patience on the 
doctor s part ; with undisguised weari 
ness on the boy s part, until the tasks 
were done. 

" Now I will fly back with delight to 
my novel, of which I was so weary, "and 
the boy rose and stretched himself ; " to 
think I should be thankful to my lessons 
for anything," he went on ; " to think 
that I should fall so low that one dulness 
is a boon because it makes the next dul 
ness seem less dull." 

" I am reading," the doctor said, not 
looking up. 

"I beg pardon," hurriedly, and the 
boy, with the color burning in his cheeks, 
subsided with his book into an arm 
chair. 

But he did not read ; instead, he 
watched furtively the man before him, 
wondering what was the point of his life. 
Why did he live in this lonely fashion, 
away oft in these wilds ; why study so 
diligently ; why spend his time and his 
money on the poor creatures, the scum 
of the country, who gathered out in this 
region? Like to-day, spending hours 
over one little waif who was of no earthly 
use to anyone. Was he altogether right 
in his mind ? He must be, Paul con 
cluded, for he remembered quite dis 
tinctly his father s dying words about 
him " I give him Paul as uncondition 
ally as such a thing can be done, and 
charge him to be all to him that he would 
be to his own son." Paul remembered 
it all quite distinctly, and the last talk 
his father had given him. After that the 
long months when his mother pleaded 
not to give him up the lawyer s protest, 
and the letters from this guardian, that 
had made his mother so ill ; then his 
journey to this far Western region, his 
reception, and wonder at his surround 
ings. It was very strange ; and with all 



22 



JERRY. 



his precocious, shallow knowledge of the 
world, he could make nothing of these 
facts that met him on every hand. 

Now he found that there had been 
some acquaintance between his mother 
and his guardian ; a new piece of knowl 
edge that deserved much thought. Why 
not ask about this new puzzle ? Why 
not, indeed ! After that last snub, he 
would rather put his hand in the fire 
than say a word. No really harsh word 
had ever been said to him by this man, 
yet Paul would sooner have attempted to 
strike him, than positively to disregard 
one wish of his. He shirked his duty 
sometimes, when in a particularly rebel 
lious frame of mind, and when his guar 
dian was not at hand to look him over 
after a cool, calm way he had. Some 
times he longed to see him angry, to 
hear him curse and swear and storm as 
he had heard other men do ; he thought 
it would be almost refreshing. This 
intense calm ; this controlled stillness 
that nothing seemed to disturb, was 
frightfully monotonous, and the man 
must surely be devoid of feeling. And 
yet he helped all the poor and sick, and 
got no pay for it ; certainly a strange 
man. 

And this strange man sat in the brill 
iant circle of lamplight reading on and 
on ; turning page after page as if noth 
ing existed for him save that book. AH 
day long he had been resting with no 
eye to scan his features no keen curi 
osity to probe his self-control all day 
he had been resting with only the wild 
creatures about him. 

So they sat until the word came of a 
miner who had fallen and injured him 
self ; then the doctor closed his book 
and ordered his horse, and telling the 
boy not to wait for him, rode away in 
the darkness to spend the hours of the 
night among the lowest of mankind 
watching the death-struggles of the 
strong the misery and desolation of the 
weak. 

Aye, what did life seem to him ? what 
use in all its toil and striving? what 
comfort for all its sorrow and suffering ? 

As well as he could he eased the ago 
ny of body, and comforted the heart 
for he knelt and prayed for the passing 
soul this strange man whose life had 
no visible point. 



And riding homeward in the wild 
dawn he whispered once again : 
" If God will ever forgive me ! " 



CHAPTER VIH. 

And with no language but a cry. 

JERKY sat in the low doorway very 
much as he had done on the spring 
morning before he left his home, with 
the sun shining all about him, finding 
out all the hollows in his small face, and 
showing the grave eyes grown larger 
and more wistful. His hopes had all 
failed him ; the only object he had ever 
had was seemingly an illusion ; a blank- 
ness had come to him that was strange 
and unaccountable, and he realized thor 
oughly but one thing that he was sorry 
he had ever wakened from his sleep on 
the trail. He felt more lonely now 
that there was nothing to remind him 
of his past save his little bundle. His 
clothes were all new and warm ; Joe had 
brought them from Eureka, whatever or 
wherever that might be. Eed flannel 
shirts and thick trousers, and a thing 
Jerry had never known before in his 
short life a pair of boots ! In his rec 
ollection his father had possessed one 
pair ; but further than that he did not 
know boots. Now he sat in the sun 
shine, thinking, as far as his half-awak 
ened faculties could think. Heretofore 
his hie had been but a dull routine, 
never reaching beyond the old rail- 
fence, of helping his mother with the 
scant crop, or picking berries that his 
father took away to "peddle"- which 
meant to Jerry that his father would re 
turn with a small store of provisions, 
but always whiskey. So his life had 
passed in ignorance and silence, with 
pain and hunger for variety. With his 
mother s disappearance came the first 
change and excitement. She had talked 
to him of the " Golding Gates," and 
then for the first time he had heard that 
there were such things as peace and 
plenty. After that his journey the 
excitement the failure the long sleep 
and slow awakening to kindness and 
rest, and this strange blankness for 
which he could not account, for he 



JERRY. 



23 



knew his life was more full than ever 
before. 

He sat in the sunshine, slowly revolv 
ing the reasons of things as far as he 
knew them, and gradually coming to 
the conclusion that he had missed the 
" Gates," because he had not his mother 
with him, and added to this was the 
hopelessness of ever being able to re 
turn and undo the evil done to his 
mother. He leaned against the door 
post sorrowfully. "I can t never git 
back," he muttered, "Joe Hows as he 
dunno how I made out to git here ; 
cause he Hows I muster come from 
whar he come from, cause I talks like 
all his ns folks ; an ther big water I m 
fearder that, sure ! " He would not con 
tinue his wanderings, for he had no 
hope now, and one place was as good as 
another. Joe never beat him Joe gave 
him food and clothes. There was noth 
ing for it but to stay where he was ; 
mind the house by day while Joe was 
gone ; cut wood down among the pines, 
and have the supper cooked when Joe 
came home ; this was the routine. " If 
I only hed Mammy," he would whisper 
in the long, silent days, turning his 
bundle over in his hands. But when 
Joe came home at night the fire was al 
ways burning, the supper ready, and the 
little face watching for him. And Joe 
felt he had done a good thing in taking 
in the little waif. 

" He s sumpen ter say hardy to 
when I gits home of a evenin ," he said 
to the doctor as if to excuse his weak 
ness ; and long before there was any 
chance of seeing his house, Joe would 
look up the trail and try to catch a 

tlimpse of the open door and the little 
gure showing black against the fire 
light. 

And when supper was despatched, 
and the house closed for the night, it 
was pleasant to feel that if he put 
down his pipe and asked a question 
there was a voice to answer him. 

He often wondered over the child, 
and occasionally put a question to him ; 
but the doctor had said to wait until 
the child was quite strong before he 
took his mind back to the things that 
had caused his illness. So Joe waited 
until one night, when the crisis was 
reached unintentionally. 



Joe had sat silent for a long time, 
when, putting down his pipe and look 
ing solemnly into the fire, he said : 

" To-morrer pore Lije Milton is agoin 
to be buried, Jerry, an youuns kin go 
alonger me if youuns hes a mind thet 
way. Lije an hisn woman come from 
home, too." 

Jerry, squatting by the fire, was silent 
for several minutes, then looked up 
slowly. 

"Buried?" he said. 

Joe looked at the child in astonish 
ment. 

" Well, I reckon thet s what I said ; 
buried," he repeated. 

" What s thet ? " very simply. 

" My soul, boy ! " in absolute won 
der, " why, pore Lije is dead, dead as a 
cole stone, an weuns is agoin to bury 
him. Ain t youuns never been to a 
buryin ?" 

" I dunno," hesitatingly. 

"Ain t youuns never seen nothin 
die?" 

" I dunno," with a tone of humility 
added to the ignorance. 

" Ain t youuns never broke a chicken s 
neck ? " 

" No, but I hev sawn it done," some 
what of confidence coming again into 
his voice. 

" Well, when its neck s broke, an it s 
a-lyin thar rale still " 

"But it don t," Jerry interrupted, 
quickly, "it hops around powerful, it 
do, jest all over ever thing." 

" Thet s true," Joe acknowledged, see 
ing the weakness of his simile, but at a 
loss for a better, until after a little 
thought he looked up slowly, "but it 
do git rale quiet atterwards." 

" Thet s so," Jerry allowed in his turn. 

"An* cole, an stiff," Joe went on, 
with superiority growing in his voice. 

" It do," looking up. 

" Well, then it s dead ; it can t crow 
no mo , an if it s a hen it can t cluck no 
mo to its chickens ; it can t eat ner 
nothin , an it s dead, 7 solemnly. 

Jerry made no response, his little 
mind was far too busy, was groping too 
earnestly for him to make any sound ; 
and Joe went on : 

" An thet s what s come to pore Lije 
Milton ; he s dead, plum dead ; he can t 
eat, ner talk, ner do nothin ; he jest 



JERRY. 



lies thar stiff an cole, an youuns kin call 
him furever ! Pore Mis Milton were jest 
a-howlin , but Lije never knowed it." 

"An what s buryin ?" Jerry asked 
again, in the silence that followed Joe s 
words. 

Again Joe looked the child over from 
head to heels, as a naturalist would scan 
a totalty new and unexpected develop 
ment in some well-known species. This 
ignorance was something entirely be 
yond his experience any extreme being 
beyond him and he scarcely knew how 
to account for it ; but with exemplary 
patience he tried to make it clear to the 
child. 

"When folks is dead," he began 
slowly, " we digs a hole an puts em in, 
and kiwers em good." 

The child s eyes grew wider as he lis 
tened, and he fastened them on the 
speaker with an intensity that made Joe 
halt a little in his speech. 

"They re bleeged to do it," he ex 
plained hastily, as if the child had con 
demned the practice. 

" An puts rails round it, an bresh on 
top?" the little, anxious voice ques 
tioned. 

Joe was puzzled for a moment, but he 
answered bravely, nevertheless : 

" Sometimes they do when critters 
air roun ; they purtects em thet way." 

"An can t theyuns never git up no 
mo ? " with his pitiful eyes still on the 
man s face. 

Joe shook his head. 

" Not fur a long spell," he said ; " an 
I ain t rale sartain sure bout thet ; but 
some preachers b lieves it, an calls it 
the jedgment day, an says as all folks 
as is dead gits up then ; gits up a-singin 
an a-shoutin to march to the Promis - 
lan , whar thar ain t no mo sickness, ner 
nothin bad. My Nancy Ann s gone 
gone in at the Pearly Gates ! " 

" Golding Gates, " the child inter 
rupted eagerly, "the Golding Gates. 
Mammy llowed she were agoin thar, her 
did." 

Joe looked at the child earnestly. 

"Is youun s mammy dead ? " he asked, 
too curious to remember the doctor s 
injunctions. 

Jerry shook his head. 

"I dunno," he answered, and all the 
light died out of his eyes, " I dunno ; I 



dunno nothin ! " covering his face with 
his hands. " Mammy s goned away, an 
I piled bresh on her, I did, "the bur den of 
his remorse breaking out in a wail, " an 
some blossoms ; but I never knowed I 
never knowed ! " rocking back and forth 
with the pitiful refrain coming almost 
hysterically from his lips "I never 
knowed, I never knowed ! " 

Joe was startled, for he remembered 
the days when this cry never faltered 
until the voice was too weak to cry. 
Was the child becoming ill again ? And 
in his anxiety he remembered the doc 
tor s quieting words. 

"It s all right, Jerry," he said, gently, 
" youuns done all right : ax the doctor 
when youuns sees him, he knows." 

The pitiful cry died away and the 
rocking ceased as Joe went on : 

" If youuns Par buried her " 

" The woman in the valley named it 
plantin of her," the child put in wear- 

% 

" Well," Joe granted, " some folks do 
name it plantin , but I don t How as I 
like it ; it soun s like weuns wus taters or 
corn, so I says buried, I do ; an if youuns 
Par buried youuns Mar, her muster been 
dead, sure ; an if youuns piled rails an 
bresh roun her, youuns done jest right ; 
youuns purtected her, youuns did." 

Jerry leaned against the chimney, si 
lent ; his remorse was being stilled, but 
his hopelessness was increasing with 
every word Joe uttered. He would 
never see his mother again unless what 
Joe only half believed should turn out 
true; the "Jedgment day," when all 
the dead should rise ; and he looked up 
asking : 

" An when ll it come ? " 

"What?" in some anxiety lest his 
stock of learning should be exhausted. 

"The day when all the folks gits 
up?" 

" Thar ain t no man as knows," Joe an 
swered, with reassured solemnity ; " the 
doctor told my Nancy Ann as nobody 
knowed ; he said the horn ud blow an 
all ud rise ; but some folks don t b lieve 
it ; pore Lije Milton never b lieved it, 
cause he llowed he d ruther never git 
up no mo ; he llowed he d done lived in 
a mine as is a hole in the groun , and he d 
jest as lieve stay thar ;" then rousing as 
from a meditation, he turned to the 



JERRY. 



25 



child, "but youuns done right, Jerry, 
an youuns pore Mar is a-resting mighty 
easy, I reckon, an youuns kin rest easy 
too ; " with which grain of comfort the 
child went away to his bed in the cor 
ner ; and Joe, feeling troubled about 
him, determined to tell the doctor of 
his perplexity, and ask his advice. 
He had done his best, but he was dimly 
conscious that his knowledge had run 
short under the child s questioning, and 
any further probings from this quarter 
would put him where he would have 
nothing to say. Besides, he was in 
some doubt as to the soundness of the 
child s mind ; such dense ignorance 
puzzled sorely his own half-knowledge. 
He could not comprehend this extreme 
any more than he could realize the other, 
and he felt obliged to appeal to a 
higher power. 

He would ask the doctor the next day, 
for of course the doctor would be at 
Lije s funeral. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

Death endetli all ; 

And then ? 

The tears are dried The dim hope fled, 
Love lieth still, and cold, and dead 
Death endeth all ; 
And then ? 

A DIM, gray day, with the clouds drift 
ing so low that they hid the tops of the 
mountains, and hung far down the sides 
like ragged curtains. No rain was fall 
ing, and the wind was still save now and 
then it rose in sudden gusts that tore 
the clouds to pieces. 

Joe and Jerry set out on their way at 
an early hour, as the distance was not 
short, and the occasion one that de 
manded the respect of long and solemn 
waiting, especially from Joe, who had 
the honor of having come from the same 
county in Tennessee as Lije Milton. 
Man} 7 in the colony had come from 
neighboring States and counties, but 
Joe alone had come from the same 
place. 

They had beaten their clothes clear 
of dust, had greased their boots, and 
scrubbed their faces and heads until the 
skin shone and the hair lay as sleek as 
wax. But it was a great day in Durden s, 



and one that required these rites and cer 
emonies. Lije Milton was a miner of 
high degree, indeed, a mine owner ; and 
not only this, but one who had dared to 
go so far as to doubt the doctor s doc 
trine of a hereafter ; one who had ac 
tually argued this point with the doc 
tor, but who still loved the doctor, and 
had more than once declared his in 
tention of knocking down anyone who 
agreed with him in his opinions against 
the doctor. He could not second the 
doctor in his views, but no one else 
should dare to take such a stand while 
" Lije Milton hed a fist." 

And Lije was held in most profound 
respect ; he had killed a " grisly " with 
a jack-knife he had knocked down a 
mule with his fist he had discovered 
the new mine he had scalped more In 
dians than anyone else had ever seen 
he had been to more places, even to the 
end of the old mine, where everybody 
knew he would have to meet old Dur 
den s ghost that lived there in peace 
and plenty. 

All these things Lije had done ; and 
all these things Joe poured into Jerry s 
ears, adding a full description of the 
awful terror of the black depths in 
"Durden s mine," where Lije had met 
and conquered the wandering spirit of 
the ancient possessor. 

" Thar s water in thar thet never quits 
a-drappin ," Joe went on, " an Lije kep 
on a-hearin it, an a-hearin it, tell it jest 
wore him plum out, an he llowed he d 
go in thar an see bout it ; an he did," 
pausing solemnly, " you bet he did ; an 
he were gone two days, he were ; an I 
tells youuns, Jerry," drawing a long 
breath that seemed to catch a little, 
" Lije wornt never the same man sence ; 
never, sure s youuns is born," stopping 
to put a fresh piece of tobacco in his 
mouth ; " an he never tole nobody what 
it was he sawn in thar, ceppen thet he 
hearn things a-cryin an the water al- 
lers a-drappin ; but he llowed as old 
Durden d never pester him no mo ; an 
now Lije is gone, an ain t no better man 
an old Durden." 

"Were old Durden buried?" Jerry 
asked, his mind occupied with these rites 
he did not understand. 

Joe shook his head. 

" I ain t plum sure," he said, " fur ole 



26 



JERRY. 



Durden were dead an gone fore ever I 
come out to this place ; but I hearn as 
he never wuz ! He tumbled off some 
rale deep hole in the mine, an nobody 
never knowed rightly whar it were ; but 
nobody couldn t git no mo men to work 
in Durden s mine." Then more medi 
tatively, " I ain t never worked none in 
thar, but they do say as thar s mo gole 
in Durden s mine an any man kin dig, 
they do." 

"Gole? "the child asked. 

Joe turned back in the narrow path 
to look down on him. 

" My Lord ! boy, ain t youuns got nary 
idee?" he said ; " ain t youuns never seed 
no gole?" 

Jerry shook his head, leaning humbly 
against an adjacent rock. 

" I dunno nothin ," he answered, wea 
rily. 

" Ain t youuns never seed no money ? " 

And again Jerry shook his head. Joe 
was in despair almost ; the child surely 
must be wrong in his mind. 

"Well, Jerry," compassionately, "I 
mus How as youuns is a most onknow- 
in creetur ; well, jest listen ; money jest 
means ever blessed thing an creetur," 
taking his hands out of his pockets to 
emphasize his words ; " money means 
mules, an powder, an shot, an a house, 
an ever kinder truck ; money means 
wittles, an clothes, an boots, an hats ; 
money means youuns is too good to do 
nothin ; money means terbacky, an seg- 
yars, an whiskey " 

" Dad hed whiskey all the time," the 
boy interrupted, quickly. 

" Then youuns Par hed money," Joe 
finished, conclusively, " an money air 
made outer gole, an gole air yaller, an 
shines ; an gole just lays roun loose in 
Durden s mine ! " 

"An gole makes the Golding Gates ? " 
the child queried, deprecatingly, as Joe 
was about to proceed on his way. 

" You bet it do," he answered, " cause 
the preachers says thar s riches thar as 
never fails never ! " and again turning 
from the child, he walked on. 

Down, down, down to the funeral of 
this hero who had passed by the shining 
treasures of Durden s mine in order to 
do battle with Durden s ghost ; but who 
had, nevertheless, come back a changed 
man. 



Jerry listened and wondered, if the 
confusion of ideas in his mind could be 
called wonder. His pure and simple 
conception of the " Golding Gates " had 
become inextricably mixed with his 
father and the money that bought whis 
key ! Could it be the same gold ? 

His judgment wavered for a time ; 
but before he reached Lije Milton s, it 
had settled to the conviction that the 
gold that bought whiskey, and so repre 
sented his father and all his misery, 
could not be the same thing that made 
the entrance to the wonderful land of 
which his mother had told him the 
land where he must meet her. " Mam- 
my d never go no whars as thar wuz 
whiskey," he whispered to himself 
" never, as sure s I m alive." Still, this 
conclusion did not change the mystery ; 
did some people like beatings and hun 
ger, and so go to a place where all was 
gold, and so all was whiskey ? Lije Mil 
ton was right ; leave the gold, if gold 
meant whiskey. 

Yet there was something strange about 
it all ; Joe seemed to set great store by 
gold, but not by whiskey, for he never 
got drunk. 

And Jerry was at a loss. 

" I ll ax the doctor," he said softly to 
himself " Joe says as he kin jest tell 
about ever thing I ll ax him," and he 
followed silently down the steep way. 

The clouds came lower and lower 
over the rough land that was torn and 
rent in every direction by hands hun 
gry for gold the rough, red land, so 
dark and unlovely ; with no exquisite 
coloring ; no beautiful fresh greenness ; 
no gorgeous autumn staining poor, 
hard, rock-broken land. 

But humanity did not seem to miss 
the soft loveliness that had spread about 
their paths in the far East ; they did not 
ever think of the wind that sobbed 
among the black pines, and crept down 
the lonely gorges, as the same wind that 
swept across the green hills far away 
beyond the Mississippi. A little child 
listened to it because it sounded " like 
Mammy a-singin ; " but that was all. 

The people had come only for gold, 
and what use in listening to the wind, 
even if it did come from their old homes ? 
All was equal out here in the West, and 
money was made more easily. In the 



JERRY. 



27 



East it had been long toil and little pay ; 
riches and luxury were all about them, 
to be envied and longed for, but not to 
be won by them. What folly to listen 
to the wind what folly to think of their 
old homes where their fathers had been 
content ; the old men and women mak 
ing their living so hardly the old graves 
where so many had laid them down in 
weariness and hope. It had done very 
well for the old, who had been content 
to see others above them ; but in this 
new West things were very different. 

The wind was whispering very low to 
day and Jerry listened almost uncon 
sciously ; in his own home the clouds 
and wind came down just as they did 
here, and he felt less lonely when they 
closed about him, as he followed Joe in 
puzzled silence. 

At last Lije Milton s house was 
reached ; a frame house with an upper 
story, which, being the only one in Dur- 
den s, had caused much talk at the time 
of building. But Lije s wife, who had 
come out later than he, had made him 
build this addition, which his friends 
had criticised quietly. Criticised be 
cause they were friends, and quietly 
because Lije was not over-scrupulous 
about either words or blows. 

There were curtains at the glazed win 
dows, and a fence about the front yard, 
which last was more than even the doc 
tor s house could boast ; more than this, 
there was a horse-rack in front of the 
gate for the convenience of anyone stop 
ping either at Lije s, or at any other 
house in the settlement. 

Inside, all was in solemn order ; a 
large fire burned in the broad fireplace 
of the best room ; on the walls were 
frightful prints ; a gorgeously painted 
clock ticked on the mantel - piece, 
flanked by two brilliant china vases ; the 
bedstead in the corner boasted a feather 
bed, a rare and costly thing in Durden s, 
and was covered by a patchwork quilt 
that would have defied any rainbow to 
a contest of colors. A rug of fringed 
woollen rags was on the floor in front of 
the hearth, and on the backs of the 
three cane-seated rocking-chairs were 
tidies of wonderful workmanship. Hows 
of medicine bottles stood on a table in 
one corner, to show that no money had 
been spared in Tiije s illness ; and around 



this gorgeous apartment for it was 
gorgeous and luxurious for Durden s, 
and Mrs. Milton saw with much pride 
that all were awed by it were placed 
benches and chairs for the accommoda 
tion of friends. They were pretty well 
filled now, and had been so for hours, 
by rows of women and children, with 
their long bonnets either pushed back 
from their heads, or held in their hands. 

Near the fire, rocking slowly in the 
largest of the rocking-chairs, backed by 
the gaudiest tidy, sat the widow. Her 
straight, sandy hair was screwed into a 
tight knot at the back of her head ; her 
dress, made of curtain chintz, was gor 
geous in palm-leaves a foot long, but 
toned in front with large white china 
buttons, also a rare article in Durden s. 

" Lije never grudged her no thin , you 
bet ! " and all the women moved their 
heads mournfully. " Lije never grudged 
nothin , thet was sure," they said, then 
looked to where, on two rough carpen 
ters benches, rested the painted deal 
coffin, and in it all that remained of the 
hero of Durden s. 

A powerfully made giant, now lying 
in unwonted quiet and unnatural neat 
ness, arrayed in a suit of " sto clothes " 
that proved more than anything the 
great wealth and importance of the man, 
and the calm disregard his widow had 
for money. " Thar ain t nothin mean 
bout me," she had said, " an Lije shell 
be buried in the best clothes thar is 
in Durden s, an them is his own sto 
clothes," and all the settlement agreed 
with her, and looked with much just 
pride into the eyes of the people who 
had come over from Eureka to the fu 
neral. 

Outside a group of men stood about 
the door and lounged against the fence ; 
and inside, through an open door an 
other group of men could be seen in the 
kitchen, where refreshments were being 
served by two or three women. 

All had been in and out more than 
once, for it was not often that corn-bread 
and bacon, and whiskey and coffee were 
to be had without stint, and had with 
the choice either of " long " or " short 
sweetenin ! " But " there warn t nothin 
mean bout Mrs. Milton." 

No one went in as if they specially 
needed or desired the food and drink, 



JERRY. 



but with an air of accommodation, as if 
they took it only to please their hostess 
and their dead friend. 

So it all was when Joe and Jerry ar 
rived ; it took a little time to make their 
way through the group in the front yard, 
for everyone had some word to say to 
Joe about the boy. Gossip and news 
spread even in that wild country, and 
everybody knew that Joe Gilliam had 
found a boy and had taken him in ; but 
more than this Joe scarcely knew him 
self. That the boy s name was Jerry 
that his mother was dead that he had 
run away from home and would have 
died in the attempt but for Joe was 
all that Joe knew, except that the boy 
was hopelessly ignorant might be con 
sidered even a little off in his mind. But 
Joe let none of this appear in his talk. 
" Is thet your boy, Joe ? " they asked. 
"Thet s ther boy," looking down on 
Jerry, standing beside him with his 
hands in his pockets. 

" Where d ye find him ? " 
" A-comin down Blake s trail." 
" He looks mighty skimpy." 
" He do," Joe acknowledged ; then a 
silence fell, during which all the group 
was occupied in looking Jerry well over, 
and no sound could be heard save the 
chewing and spitting of tobacco. This 
was the way of their kind, and Jerry, 
seeming to understand it, was silent 
under the scrutiny. Then Joe turned 
away toward the house, and Jerry fol 
lowed him. 

"Tuck off youuns hat," Joe whispered 
as they entered, and the child obeyed. 

All around the room his eyes wan 
dered ; over the rows of ugly, work-worn, 
stolid-looking women wearing on their 
faces and in their eyes a sort of unques 
tioning stoicism. They knew all that 
life could possibly hold for them ; they 
had solved, as far as they could hope to 
solve, or as far as they had realized them, 
all the mysteries of their days ; they 
knew no higher desire than the bare 
necessities of food and clothing ; their 
hopes were bounded by their actual 
wants ; their sorrows, their joys, their 
pains, and pleasures were borne without 
any outcry ; nothing but their fatalistic 
stoicism possessed any intensity for 
them, and from that they were seldom 
shaken. 



A birth, a death, a beating came nat 
urally into the day s work, and passed 
by with little comment. 

Jerry looked about him now without 
any understanding of what this gather 
ing meant. Lije Milton was dead, Joe 
had told him, and they had come to see 
him buried, or planted, whichever name 
one preferred using ; and Jerry had 
come to see, and to judge and condemn, 
or exonerate his father ; to satisfy him 
self as to his own action in piling the 
brush on his mother s grave, and then 
in deserting her. It was a thing of mo 
mentous importance to him, for either 
it would settle forever on his life the 
burden of remorse and pain, or it would 
prove to him that the burying of his 
mother was an absolute necessity, so 
leaving him no hope but the day of 
Resurrection, which Joe seemed to hold 
as very questionable. 

It never occurred to him that the 
burying of his mother, right or wrong, 
would have deprived her of life, and so 
have exonerated him from all ill-doing ; 
he felt only that either his father had 
buried her to keep her from running 
away to the " Golding Gates," or that 
she was really dead, and there was noth 
ing in the future but the "Jedgrnent 
day." 

Next to the long white box which Joe 
was now approaching, Jerry was the cen 
tre of attraction, for all were curious to 
see Joe Gilliam s boy. 

Fortunately for Jerry, the curiosity 
of this class was not demonstrative ; a 
fact satisfied them, and Jerry standing 
among them proved all the story they 
had heard, and the passing whisper that 
"Joe ain t found much," ended the mat 
ter. 

But Jerry realized nothing after his 
first look around the room, save that 
Joe was standing, hat in hand, gazing 
into a long box that seemed strangely 
like one he had seen before. His pa 
tient eyes grew more wistful, and a look 
of pain and wonder came in them as he 
watched Joe. 

He was afraid to go nearer, afraid of 
the certainty that would be his if he 
looked in that box. Almost it seemed 
as if he would again see his mother as 
he had seen her last, before his father 
had nailed the box up to put it in the 



JERRY. 



29 



ground. He trembled from head to foot 
as he stood looking up with eyes fixed 
steadfastly on Joe s. 

" Yon s afraid," one woman said to 
another, and the all-important widow, 
hearing the words, looked at the child. 

" Youuns kin look in," she said. " Lije 
ain t a-goin to hurt youuns ; he never 
b lieved he d git up no mo, an I don t 
b lieve it nuther," obstinately. 

Jerry only half comprehended the 
words as he stood watching Joe, and 
had no thought that they were addressed 
to him ; but Joe fully realized, not only 
all that was being said, but all that was 
being thought ; and beyond this, the aw 
ful breach of funeral etiquette of which 
Jerry was now guilty. Not to stand and 
look mournfully at the poor lump of clay 
clothed in the mocking emblems of daily 
life not to stand and think how "he d 
failed away in his sickness," and how he 
looked " rale nateral " not to make a 
close inspection of the defenceless fellow- 
creature so as to be able to describe and 
criticise for the benefit of less fortunate 
friends, was to show a decided lack of 
breeding, and mortally to offend all sur 
viving relatives. 

And Joe, not in the least comprehend 
ing Jerry s trembling terror, drew the 
child forward ; drew him forward until 
the questioning eyes could not but look 
down to the dead for their answer. The 
gaunt, grayish - yellow face and the 
great toil-worn hands crossed in un 
earthly quiet. There was no sound, no 
movement from the child ; he stood and 
looked, while his heart seemed to sink 
within him, and the daylight seemed to 
fade from about him. His disconnected 
wonders were drawing together his 
weary questions were finding answers. 

He had done no wrong, had aided in 
no ill against his mother ; he had been 
right to lay the rails about her, and to 
pile the brush there ; and his running 
away was not leaving her. 

White and still he stood, losing his 
ignorance losing his fair hope of the 
" Golding Gates " and with a loneli 
ness sweeping about him even as the 
clouds swept down and clung about the 
mountain-side a loneliness that grew 
and grew as the ceremonies of the day 
went on. 

Every blow that drove the nails home 



in the coffin-lid seemed to echo back 
through all his useless journey, to his 
poor home among the far-off hills! 
Every dull thud of the clods as they fell 
from the busy spades, seemed to choke 
him, to fill him with a stifling, breath 
less horror, to separate him still more 
hopelessly from the only love his days 
had known. 

What it was the doctor read, what it 
was the hoarse voices sang, what it 
meant when all stood bareheaded while 
the doctor looked up to the dull gray 
sky, the child could not comprehend ; it 
was to him like a dream, and over and 
over he whispered : " I ain t got nobody, 
Mammy, I ain t got nobody." 

All the way home he plodded silently 
after Joe ; no words passed, only the 
whisper, soft as a breath : 

"I ain t got nobody, Mammy, I ain t 
got nobody." 

And when his scarcely-touched supper 
was over, he wrapped himself in his 
blanket, with his little bundle held close 
in his arms. Somehow he was less lone 
ly while he could hold it close, could 
know and remember that his mother had 
worn that very apron, and had hung it 
on the very peg from which he had 
taken it. This was a comfort to him, 
for amid all the changes and wonders 
of the life he had lived of late, he seemed 
to be losing hold of the stolid facts that 
hitherto had filled his days. Things 
seemed strange and unreal to him, and 
the poor faded apron was something 
tangible that proved to him that his 
past had been more than a dream. 



CHAPTER X. 

The fair pure soul of a little child, 
Opened wide to the light of day 

Looking away to the far Paradise, 
Forgetting its roots are in clay. 

"MORNIN , doctor." 

"Well, Joe." 

"I m done brunged him, doctor." 

* Verv well ; where do you go from 
here?" 

Joe turned his hat over in his hands 
once or twice, and threw his weight 
from one foot to the other before he an 
swered, with a jerk : 

"Eureky." 



30 



JERRY. 



" You work there steadily, do you ? " 
gravely. 

"Not percisely," giving his hat an 
other turn, " but I makes a livin fur me 
an Jerry." 

The doctor took his pipe from his 
mouth and blew out a wreath of smoke. 

" What is your work ? " he asked. 

There was a pause, then Joe answered, 
slowly : 

"It s hones work, doctor, I promise 
youuns thet." 

"The same work your wife used to 
cry about ? " the doctor went on. 

For one moment Joe stood irresolute, 
then he turned from the study-door, 
where he had been waiting. 

" Jerry s out har," he said, and walked 
away down the hall. 

"Very well," the doctor called after 
him, " send him in." 

Coming from the glare of the daylight 
into the comparative gloom of the study, 
where the windows looked like holes cut 
in walls of books, Jerry was blinded for 
a moment, but in a little while it seemed 
more natural to him, for the sombre 
books seemed to shade the sunshine 
down to the likeness of the light up un 
der the rocks where Joe s little house 
stood. 

A bright fire burned, for the season 
was late autumn, and in front of it, in a 
long, low -hung smoking -chair, rested 
the doctor. 

Hat in hand, Jerry paused just inside 
the door and looked about him. 

Books were unknown to him, and the 
walls might just as well have been lined 
with stones for aught he knew. He did 
not look at them with wonder, even, nor 
at anything except the doctor looming 
like a shadow in the clouds of tobacco- 
smoke. 

This man was a power to Jerry ; a 
hero, a magician who could cure every 
kind of sickness ; who knew everything ; 
who could " bury folks," which was to 
Jerry the most mysterious of all his at 
tributes. 

So Jerry paused and looked at him 
with a deep, wondering interest, and 
some awe. 

"Shut the door, Jerry," the doctor 
said, " and come here." 

Slowly the door swung on its hinges, 
closing with an uncertain grating of the 



lock that betokened much hesitation, 
then the clumsy boots tramped heavily 
across the floor. Close up he came and 
stood looking down with much gravity 
on the doctor, who returned his look 
with corresponding interest. 

"How are you? " he said. 

" I m well as common," Jerry answered. 

" And Joe is good to you ? " 

" I How he s rale good, I do," with a 
little more heartiness creeping into his 
voice ; "he gin me boots, he did," look 
ing down to where his trousers were 
carefully stuffed into the coarse, rough 
tops. 

" Well, sit there by the fire," the doc 
tor went on, pointing to a stool near the 
hearth, " and tell me all about it. I hear 
that you went to Lije Milton s funeral." 

" Buryin ," Jerry corrected, taking his 
seat quickly. " Joe he names it a buryin , 
he do." 

" Well, a burying if you like ; Joe said 
you had never been to one before," the 
doctor went on, encouragingly. Joe had 
implored him to talk to Jerry on these 
subjects, as from Joe s conversation 
with him Jerry did not seem quite right 
in his mind ; so the doctor, watching 
the child carefully, put his question. 

" I llowed I never hed been to nary 
a-one," looking steadfastly at the doctor, 
" cause I never knowed what it were tell 
I sawn it ; but when I sawn it I knowed 
it," shaking his head like an old man, 
and turning his eyes from the doctor to 
fix them sadly on the fire. 

" And did you hear the words I read, 
Jerry?" 

The child shook his head. 

"I reckon I hearn," he answered, slow 
ly, "but I never knowed em I ain t 
never hearn none like em." 

" Can you read ? " 

A blank look came over the child s 
face. 

" I dunno," he answered, without look 
ing up. 

"Could your father read? or your 
mother ? " 

" Mebbe," was answered, doubtfully, 
" but I never hearn no thin bout it ; an 
I dunno nothin nohow," putting his el 
bows on his knees, and his chin down 
in his hands. So much that was bewil 
dering had come to him, that he felt 
weary and despairing when made to re- 



JERRY. 



31 



alize, however kindly, his ignorance. "I 
gits rale tired a-steddyin bout things 
as I hears Joe a-talkin bout," he went 
on ; "I jest sets an sets, an keeps on 
a-steddyin tell I m plum wore out, I is." 

" Tell us some of the things you do 
not understand," the doctor suggested, 
becoming more interested in the boy, 
about whom there was an air of such 
unspeakable loneliness ; whose place in 
the world s general plan seemed to have 
been forgotten. No one owned him ; 
no one cared especially for him; and 
having been instrumental in restoring 
the boy to life, the doctor felt in some 
sort bound to try to help him ; and now 
the child looked at him gravely, asking : 

" Do gole makes money as buys whis 
key ? " 

"Yes." 

" An do gole make the Golding 
Gates ? " 

" The < Golden Gates ? " slowly. 

" Thet s what I said," earnestly, " the 
Golding Gates ; thet s whar Mammy 
lowed she were a-goin , her did," sol 
emnly, " an her pinted straight out the 
winder to whar the sun were a-setting, 
her did." 

" And they buried her ? " 

"They did, sure," then, with a little 
catch in his voice, " an I piled bresh on 
her, I did," looking up wistfully. 

"Wen?" 

"An I were feared as she couldn t 
never git up no mo , cause of the bresh/ 
speaking more rapidly as he touched 
the cause of his agony, " an I hearn a 
woman a-sayin as her were planted, an 
I llowed as Dad hed kiwered her in so 
her couldn t run away to the Golding 
Gates an I llowed I hed he pped him, 
I did, but I never knowed I never 
knowed ! " putting his hands over his 
face. 

" But you did right, Jerry," the doc 
tor said ; " the brush will protect the 
grave from washing." 

"An it kiwered the rails, it did," 
looking up anxiously, "I llowed as 
twornt a-tuckin nothin jist to lift a few 
rails from the fence ; Dad 11 never know ; 
but twornt a-tuckin nothin . Mammy 
tole me never to tuck nothin as wornt 
mine, her did." 

" And would not your father have giv 
en you the rails?" the doctor asked, more 



to draw the child out than to decide on 
the wickedness of stealing the rails. 

Jerry shook his head. 

" Dad never sot no store by Mammy, 
never, sure s youuns is born," turning 
his eyes once more to the fire. " Dad 
were a-goin to bust my head agin the 
chimbly, an Mammy ketched his n arm, 
her did," his face lighting up and his 
eyes flashing " an Dad knocked her 
agin the wall, he did, an chunked me 
a- topper her ! It was in the mornin , an 
the nex mornin thar were a-buryin ; 
an then Minervy Ann Salter corned to 
live, her did," breathlessly, "an her 
knocked me deef an bline," pausing, 
" an I runned away," with a fall in his 
voice and a change in his whole man 
ner ; the running away had been such 
an utter failure. 

The doctor sat silent while the wretch 
ed story dawned on him ; would it be 
merciful to open the child s eyes to all 
the story merciful to make him under 
stand all its bearings ? 

"But Mammy he pped to split them 
rails, her did," the child went on, slowly, 
" an I only tuck a few, only a few ; an 
I kiwered em good so Dad couldn t seen 
em ; cause if he tuck em away ole 
Molly thet s the sow," in an explana 
tory tone, " ole Molly d a-rooted it sure, 
jist sure," meditatively, " fur ole Molly 
were the meanes hog a-livin ; I How 
Minervy Ann Salter s done kilt her by 
now, I reckon her lies," drawing his shirt 
sleeve across his nose ; "pore ole Molly, 
her were pisen mean, sure, but her 
b longed to Mammy, an I d like power 
ful to see her onest more, I would I 
ain t got nobody," putting his face down 
on his arms that were crossed on his 
knees " I aint got nobody -" with a 
little cry that struck home to his com 
panion s heart. 

"And I too have nobody, Jerry," the 
doctor said. 

The child looked up slowly. 

" Not nary a soul ? " he asked. 

The doctor shook his head. 

" My mother died when I was a little 
baby," he said. 

" An youuns daddy ? " interestedly. 

" He married again." 

" An she beat youuns ? " 

" No, but she did not like me, and I 
lived with my uncle." 



32 



JERRY. 



" An youuns never runned away ? " 

" No, but after I was a man my uncle 
died, and I came out here." 

" What fur ? " gravely. 

" There are people here ; people who 
get sick, and lonely, and tired, and I can 
help them ; I can make them well, and 
help them to be good, so that they can 
go in at the Golden Gate when they 
die." 

" Does youuns b lieve thar s a Golding 
Gates ? " wonderingly ; for his own be 
lief in it had seemed to fade from him 
in the presence of death and the grave 
as he had lately realized them. 

"Yes." 

" An youuns mammy is thar ? " softly. 

" Yes." 

" An my mammy ? " 

" Yes." 

There was a moment s silence ; then 
the thin little face was raised again. 

" I corned a fur ways an I ain t never 
sawn it." 

" And I have never seen it, but I know 
it is there." 

"Whar?" 

" On the other side the grave." 

" The grave ? " 

" Yes, where we will be buried." 

" Like Lije Milton?" 

"Yes." 

The child turned away again to the 
fire that danced and nickered up the 
chimney, as if he saw some vision in 
the flames ; and the doctor, thinking 
his own thoughts, almost forgot the 
child. 

"But Lije Milton never b lieved as 
he d git up agin," came at last, rousing 
the doctor from his dream, "and Joe 
says as Lije d jest as lieve stay in thet 
thar hole furiver, an hisn woman tole 
me them same words, her did." 

"Maybe he would," the doctor an 
swered, " but that does not mean that he 
is going to stay there ; you may be will 
ing to sit by that fire forever, but that 
does not mean that you are going to do 

"Thet s true as mornin ," the child 
said, slowly ; " I d jest as lieve stay har, 
but I ain t agoin to ; an Lije will hev to 
git up?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

" I do not know." 



"Joe Hows as it s named the Jedg- 
ment day, " deprecatingly. 

"Some people call it so," the doctor 
answered. 

" An what does youuns call it ? " 

"I call it going home," watching a 
wreath of smoke as it floated away 
slowly. 

" To youuns mammy ? " the boy asked. 

" Yes," and the doctor drew his hand 
across his eyes. 

How persistently the child clung to 
the one love of his life ; and he pictured 
to himself what a poor, draggled crea 
ture this mother had been, yet how di 
vinely the child s love wrapped her in 
its beauty. Her life had been given for 
his ; and some day he would know this. 
Then, with a sigh, the doctor roused 
himself. 

" You must learn to read, Jerry," he 
said. 

"Bead?" 

"Yes, like this," taking a book from 
a table near him, and opening it, " you 
see these little marks ? " 

"I do." 

"Well, they are words, and a great 
many of these words put together make 
a book ; a book like one of these," point 
ing to the shelves. 

The child looked about him in won 
der ; on every side were rows and rows 
of these things called " books." What 
were they what did they mean ? 

" And you must learn so that you can 
take one of these and know what is in 
it." 

" What fur ? " gravely. 

" So that you will know everything 
without asking any questions," the doc 
tor answered; "and there is a book 
that will tell you about the Judgment 
day, and about the home where your 
mother has gone, and about what you 
must do to get to your mother." 

The solemn eyes opened wide, and 
the boy came close to this friend who 
would do so much for him. 

" Show me it?" almost breathlessly. 

The doctor took up a small Bible that 
lay near, and put it in the boy s hands. 

" That will tell you all about it, when 
you learn to read it." 

The child went back to the hearth, 
but not 10 the stool ; the crowding emo 
tions drove all unnaturalness from his 



JERRY. 



33 



mind, and he squatted down after his 
own fashion. He turned the book over 
and over tenderly, from time to time 
wiping his hands on his trousers ; over 
and over, then he opened it nothing 
but little black marks and dots noth 
ing he could know or understand ; it 
was disappointing, and he shut it up 
again. 

"Itll tell me the way to go?" he 
asked, wonderingly. 

"Yes." 

" To tuck me right straight to Mam 
my?" 

"Yes." 

" An when I gits thar kin I tell her 
bout thet bresh ? " 

"Yes." 

"An bout ther big water I were 
feared on ? " 

" You can tell her everything, Jerry, 
but it will not be any use, for she knows 
it all now ; she is always watching you, 
and is always near you ; you cannot see 
her, but she is always with you." 

" My Mammy ! " looking quickly over 
his shoulder, with a sort of terror gath 
ering in his eyes " tell me agin, doctor, 
I llow I don t rightly on erstan youuns," 
dropping on his knees and creeping to 
the doctor s side. 

" It will take a long time for you to 
understand, Jerry," looking pityingly 
down into the anxious eyes, " but you 
must believe what I say ; believe that 
3*our mother is near you, watching you ; 
and when you are good she is happy, 
and when you are bad she is sorry." 

The child looked all about him where 
he knelt with the book clasped in his 
hands, and a whisper crept through the 
silence 

" Mammy ! " 

A mystery more strange than all 
others had come to him, which there 
was no hope of solving ; this, however, 
made no difference, the doctor said he 
was to believe it, and his lonely heart 
had grasped it and was hugging it close. 
And the doctor watching him saw the 
little hand reach out with an uncertain, 
longing gesture if only he could touch 
his mother ! 

And all the way home the happy 

thought went with him that his mother 

walked beside him. Almost he heard 

her footsteps, and would pause to listen. 

VOL. VIII. 3 



CHAPTER XI. 

And with small, childish hands we are turn 
ing around 
The apple of life which another has found. 

" I CLEAN furgot," Jerry said, slowly. 
He was squatting on the hearth, look 
ing into the fire, with the book the doc 
tor had given him held close in his 
hands. " I clean furgot bout the gole, 
Joe." 

"Folks mostly members gole," Joe 
answered, packing his pipe carefully. 
"An I Ho wed as youuns never knowed 
nothin bout it, youuns d ax the doc 
tor." 

" Ain t youuns got no gole as youuns 
kin lemme see ? " the boy asked. " 

Joe stirred diligently in the fire until 
he found a coal to suit him, then pick 
ing it up deftly with his hard fingers, he 
dropped it on his pipe. 

" Mebbe I lies," he answered, slowly, 
running his hand deep into his trouser 
pockets. "Mebbe I hes one piece as 
youuns kin see," and he drew out a five- 
dollar piece, old and dingy. 

" Look at thet," he said, with some 
pride, "jest turn it over an feel of it." 

Jerry turned it over obediently, but 
no exclamation of admiration escaped 
him, no word of any kind, and a look of 
disappointment clouded his face. 

"It ain t much purty," he said at last, 
holding it at a little distance ; " it ain t 
much yaller, nor much shiny, it ain t." 

" It s ole," Joe granted, "an 5 heapser 
folks is hed thet." 

" What fur ? " looking up simply. 

" What fur ! Lord, boy, sure ernough, 
youuns dunno nothin ! What fur ? 
Great - day - in - the - momin ! " bringing 
his fist down heavily on the table, " why, 
fur ever thing, jest ever blessed thing." 

Again Jerry turned his eyes on the 
money that to him meant so little good 
for everything. 

" Good to git me to Mammy ? " he 
asked, at last. 

" You bet," Joe answered, hastily ; " fur 
if youuns hev ernough, youuns ain t 
agoin to cuss, ner sw ar, ner steal, ner 
hev a-hankerin atter other folks truck ; 
an if youuns don t do noner thet, youuns 
kin git anywhars." 

" Mammy never hed none," thought 
fully. 



34 



JERRY. 



" An her never went no whars," Joe 
struck in, conclusively. 

"Her went to the Golding Gates, " 
slowly, " cause the doctor says so," the 
doctor being overwhelming evidence. 

Joe rubbed his hand all over his 
ragged hair ; what could he say ; his 
own knowledge embraced only barren 
facts and unproved beliefs. 

" The doctor Hows as she hev gone 
to the Golding Gates, " the child re 
peated. 

" An I Hows it," Joe answered ; " an 
I Hows as my Nancy Ann leetle Nan, I 
calls her mostly hev gone thar too." 

" An her never hed no gole ? " simply. 

"Not rayly much," Joe answered, has 
tily ; " but jest youuns rub thet gole in 
the ashes," he went on, changing the 
subject, "an youuns 11 see jest how it 
shines an shines tell it gits right in a 
feller s eye, it does." Then, more medi 
tatively, "It seems like a eye don t rayly 
count, it gits holt of a feller all roun , it 
do." 

And Jerry stooping, rubbed diligently 
first one side of the coin, then the other, 
in the warm soft ashes until the gold 
shone and glittered. 

"It do shine," he said at last, turning 
it over in his palm, " folks oughter keep 
it a-shininV 

" Folks hes too much to tend to, they 
hes," Joe answered, blowing clouds of 
smoke out in his satisfaction over hav 
ing convinced Jerry of at least the 
beauty of gold ; " they ll tuck thet to 
the sto ," Joe went on, instructively, " an 
Dan Burk 11 give em a letter truck ; 
fur all he s pisen cheatin ! " again strik 
ing the table. " When I come har he 
never hed nary a thing, an his n woman 
tuck in what pore little washin she 
could git, her did ; an now God-er- 
mussy ! thar ain t nothin good ernough 
fur her nothin ; an my pore leetle 
Nan air dead ! " 

Jerry sat silent, turning the gold over 
in his hands ; he did not understand 
all of Joe s words, but being accustomed 
to this mistiness of comprehension, he 
said nothing. 

There was a long silence, then Joe 
knocked the ashes from his pipe. 

" An the doctor wants ter see me ? " 
he said. 

" He do," Jerry answered ; "he wants 



to see youuns bout sumpen, I dunno 
rightly what ; but he says, says he, 
Jerry, tell Joe I wanter see him right 
pertickler/ says ee, an I says, says I, 
Doctor, I will. " 

"Thet s cl ar," Joe said, slowly, "an 
I ll go to-morrer, I will ; " then to the 
boy, "gimme the gole, boy, it s to buy 
wittles, it is." 

And Jerry delivered up the money he 
had made to shine, the money he did not 
as yet know the meaning of, but that, 
nevertheless, had a mysterious fascina 
tion for him. 

He had turned it over many times, 
had looked at it with a longing desire to 
know its full value and meaning ; he 
should have asked the doctor about it, 
and must surely remember to do it the 
next time he saw him. He would go 
and see him again very shortly, for there 
was growing up in his heart an absorb 
ing adoration of this man this man 
who had first made him well, and had 
now made him happy. Had told him his 
mother was near him always had given 
him a book to tell him the sure way 
to reach her. 

" I loves him, I do," he said to himself, 
and Joe, hearing the indistinct whisper, 
roused from his revery. 

" What s thet youuns says ? " he asked. 

Jerry looked up 

" I says as I loves the doctor," he an 
swered, gravely. 

"I How I do too," and Joe rubbed 
his stubbly hair ; " he s a rale gentleman, 
he is, ceppen he s mos too hones ." 

" I wonder ! " Jerry said, slowly. 

"It s so," Joe went on, "the doctor 
jist helps all the mean pisenes mean 
trash thet comes to Durden s, an he 
never axes a center pay, he don t." 

" What s pay ? " and Jerry pushed the 
fire that had fallen a little apart. 

"Well," and Joe s tone was well-nigh 
hopeless, " if youuns ain t the all- 
beatenes boy I hev ever saw ! ain t 
youuns never done a job afore youuns 
leffhome?" 

"I hepped Mammy hoe the crap," 
Jerry answered, " an I hepped her split 
rails, I did, an I llowed I could tuck a 
few to lay roun her, I did." 

Joe was in despair almost ; only one 
thought the child seemed to have his 
mother, and the grave he had heaped 



JERRY 



35 



with brush how could anything be ex 
plained to him? And into Joe s half- 
developed mind crept the thought that 
whatever Jerry took hold of he would 
never let go never. While the child s 
strangely simple question found him al 
ways without an answer, and about things 
he had thought himself in full knowl 
edge of. 

" Pay means to gie a feller pay when 
he works fur youuns," Joe began ; " an 
the doctor works on all the trash as gits 
sick, an they never gie him a cent." 

" Did youuns pay him fur a-workin 
on me ? " the child asked. 

Joe shook his head. 

"He llowed as youuns didn t rightly 
b long to me nohow an he wouldn t 
tuck no pay ; an when Nancy Ann an 
my leetle baby died he never tuck no 
pay nuther, cause he llowed as I were too 
pore, he did ; but I ll pay him yit, you 
bet ! " slapping his pocket, that jingled as 
if there were more gold pieces there like 
the one he had shown Jerry, " I ll pay 
him cause I loves him, I do." 

" An what kin I do ? " the child asked, 
slowly ; " I dunno nothin ceppen to hoe, 
an chop wood, an to tote water." 

" Youuns kin larn," Joe answered, 
comfortingly ; " when I were a little chap 
I never knowed nothin nuther, but I 
larned ; jist keep youuns eyes open, an 
youuns yeers open, an youuns 11 larn a 
heap, you bet." 

" An I ll larn to read the book," Jerry 
added, taking his Bible from the floor 
where he had laid it while he rubbed 
the money, " an I ll read it to youuns, 
Joe, bout how youuns mus git to Nancy 
Ann," he went on, simply. 

" I m bleeged, Jerry," Joe answered, 
taking Jerry s offer as it was meant, 
" but I don t sot much store by larnin ," 
gravely ; " but I reckon it 11 take all 
youuns kin git to git youuns along : folks 
as ain t got much natteral sense needs a 
heaper larnin , they do." 

"An I ll try to git it," humbly ; " an I ll 
ax the doctor bout gole, I will." 

" An I ll go to see him in the mornin , 
I will," and Joe began to bar the door 
and the window, and Jerry crept away 
to his blankets in the corner, and Pete 
to his leaves ; and when all was still Joe 
made his usual rounds, and leaned his 
loaded rifle by the bedside. 



CHAPTER XH. 

"Nevertheless," continues lie, "I, too, ac 
knowledge the all but omnipotence of early 
culture and nurture ; whereby we have either 
a doddered dwarf -bush, or a high -towering, 
wide-shading tree ; either a sick yellow cab 
bage, or an edible, luxuriant green one." 

AFTER Joe had been to see the doctor, 
Jerry had been told that he was to go 
there every day, that he might learn to 
read and write. There was no school 
in Durden s, and Eureka was too far for 
Jerry to walk there every day ; so the 
doctor had agreed to teach Jerry, and 
the money Joe would have had to pay 
the school-master in Eureka, he was to 
give to some poor people in Durden s 
families the doctor knew to be worthy 
of help. 

" So I m a-payin fur youuns, Jerry, 
and youuns mus try to larn," Joe had 
said ; and Jerry, with a very humble 
and dejected mind, had promised to 
make every effort in his power. The 
feeling that he had to learn because 
he had not enough natural sense was 
dispiriting ; but it was some comfort 
to know that the doctor had learned 
all these things, and if he had begun 
life with a deficiency of mind, Jerry 
felt there was hope. And he said mild 
ly, in answer to Joe : 

" The doctor jest knows ever thing, 
Joe, an I llow he hed to larn em ; I 
reckon he hed mighty leetle sense when 
he started." 

Joe shook his head. 

" I dunno," he answered honestly, in 
spite of the point Jerry so unconsciously 
had made, "I dunno bout hisn sense; 
but if larnin kin do thet much fur any 
pusson, then I says larn, I do." 

"I will," Jerry had said, earnestly, 
and had trudged away down the moun 
tain-side with determination in every 
step. It was all a great mystery to 
Jerry, and somehow, since he had learned 
what books were, and that they knew 
everything, he felt somewhat afraid of 
them, and looked at the study as an ed 
ucated child would look on a haunted 
house. He dreaded the room, but over 
came his fears sufficiently to stay there 
alone for hours when the doctor would 
leave him to go on his round of visits. 
He would endure everything in order 



36 



JERRY. 



to learn ; his motives were simple, but, 
because of their simplicity, were strong ; 
first, the doctor had said he must learn ; 
and second, Joe was paying precious 
gold for his learning. But beyond all 
this, there was the longing to read the 
books that would tell him everything, 
and show him the way to his mother ; 
and with these motives behind him he 
plodded patiently along the road to 
knowledge close at his master s heels. 
And the doctor had asked himself if he 
were wise in the course he had begun 
with Jerry ; would not his own ignorant, 
narrow groove in life be happier for him ? 

Maybe ; but it was right to lift, be it 
ever so little, every immortal soul. He 
had made a vow once to help in some 
way every life that came in contact with 
his own more than this, to seek out 
lives and strive, to raise them ; a step 
might not be altogether clean, yet peo 
ple could mount by it. He would raise 
the boy as high as possible ; would give 
him as much education as he would take 
this would be doing only his duty. 
The life of this poor little waif was as 
lonely as his own, and what was marvel 
lous for his class feeling the loneliness. 
Usually, if the} 7 had enough to eat and 
clothes to cover them, this was suffi 
cient ; but this child, living in compara 
tive comfort, knew there was something 
he missed, and was hunting for it vague 
ly, blindly. Only a spark of soul, may 
be, but he would keep it alive, and per 
haps light a life that would be a beacon 
to many. 

And the possibilities that he was set 
ting up a "will-o -the-wisp" could he 
overlook them ? How many chances of 
inheritance were there against this boy 
what lay behind in his blood ? Still, 
he would try, for the child was surely 
above the average ; already he had shown 
thought and gratitude ; standing, look 
ing up in the doctor s face, with his 
hands in his pockets, he had asked, 
gravely : 

" Do gole keep a feller from cussin ? " 

The doctor took his pipe from between 
his lips the better to see the sharp little 
face. 

"Joe Hows as gole keeps a feller from 
cussin ," the child went on, " and from 
stealin , and a-hankerin atter other folk s 
truck; doit?" 



And the doctor answered, slowly : 

" Sometimes it does, Jerry," smooth 
ing his mustache over his lips that were 
smiling. 

"An gole gits a heaper truck ? " 

"Yes." 

"An pays youuns fur a-workin on 
pore folks, an sick folks, and pisen 
mean folks ? " eagerly. 

"Yes." 

" An I can t pay youuns," wistfully ; 
"but I kin chop wood, an hoe, an tote 
water, I kin." 

"It does not make any difference, 
Jerry," was answered, gravely. " I was 
glad to make you well." 

Then there was a silence while the 
boy, from where he stood, looked pity 
ingly on the man. 

"An nary a pusson he ps youuns," 
slowly, " cause youuns is big an strong, 
an knows ever thing," the child went on, 
as if to himself, " an I can t do nothin , 
nothin ceppen sot a heaper store by 
youuns ; an I do fore God, I do ; jest 
youuns say, an I ll do it sure, jest sure ! 
Farwell ! " and then the door was shut, 
and down the hall the heavy boots had 
tramped out of hearing ; and the lonely 
man had listened and known that into 
his life a true love and gratitude had 
come like a sweet, fresh rain falling 
wastefully on fire-hardened clay. True, 
still all that duty could do should be 
done for the child. 

And Paul, coming in and finding 
Jerry s slate full of poor little efforts at 
writing, propped up on tne table so that 
the fullest light fell on it, and knowing 
whose it must be, pondered on the mean 
ing of this man s strange life. What 
was the point of this new freak that 
made a man like his guardian spend 
hours on this wretched little creature. 
He had better be a clergyman at once. 
And was this what his mother meant by 
being a man? Was this the hope en 
tertained for him ? A feeling that was 
hatred almost, came over him ; and he 
swore a silent, angry oath that no such 
hope should be fulfilled. 

But he had a curiosity to see this boy, 
and one day he waited for him, one day 
when the doctor was out. It was a 
crisp, cold day, with a thin covering of 
snow rounding all the sharp outlines 
about the country, and making the pine 



JERRY. 



37 



woods look like fairy-land. Very cold 
in the early daylight, when Joe went 
away to his work ; and Jerry, as he put 
things to rights, whistled a straight sort 
of tune he had heard Joe whistle as he 
sat idle on Sundays whistled on and 
on in calm contentment, not knowing 
that the day would mark a turning-point 
in his life ; life was a good thing as it 
came to him now. 

His work was soon done, and shutting 
up the house securely, he tucked his 
trousers deeper into his boots, tied his 
hat down over his ears with a woollen 
scarf, and put on a coat of Joe s which, 
if rather large, was warm. 

A queer figure he made trudging 
across the white country, his long coat 
flapping against his heels, and occasion 
ally sweeping the snow, off some drift 
higher than the rest, and his sharply- 
cut yellow face looking out from the 
folds of his scarf. But the hollows in 
his face had filled out, the angles had 
rounded down, and the expression had 
changed in a way that was remarkable. 
His eyes were wistful still, but there 
had crept into them a keen, thoughtful 
look that asked a question at every 
glance. 

Still whistling the straight tune, he 
steadily overcame the obstacles of the 
steep, slippery path ; then out across 
the sweep of the valley, where the wind 
seemed to gather up its scattered forces 
and attack one on all sides, keen, bitter, 
merciless. 

But the boy did not pause ; steadily on 
against wind and snow until the road 
that formed the one street of Durden s 
was reached ; then he slackened his pace, 
and even with this pause was almost 
breathless when he reached the doctor s 
house. Still the end was accomplished, 
and up the steps and down the hall he 
went, and in at the study door in per 
fect peace with himself. 

Always reverent in his demeanor to 
ward the study, yet this time he paused 
longer in his closing of the study door ; 
a new presence was there, a person that 
in all his visits Jerry had never before 
seen. Fair and tall, but still a boy ; 
certainly a boy, for his trousers were 
stuffed into his boots but such boots ! 
A round fur cap was set on one side of 
his fair head a fur-lined cloak, held in 



place by a glittering clasp, was thrown 
back over his shoulders, and his hands, 
small and white, were stretched out to 
the roaring blaze. 

Jerry paused inside the door and 
looked at this new person without any 
hesitation or expression of embarrass 
ment ; the same honest observation that 
would have been called forth by any un 
known wonder, now came to the front 
in honor of Paul ; for it was he who oc 
cupied Jerry s eyes and thoughts. 

" Well," Paul said, slowly, giving the 
new-comer a stare quite as unmitigated 
as Jerry s own, " is your name Jerry ? " 

"It are," gravely, coming toward the 
fire. 

" It are, are it ? " Paul went on, with 
a mockery in his tone that was not lost 
on Jerry ; "you must love lessons to 
come on such a day as this." 

"I do," Jerry returned, beginning to 
divest himself of coat and hat, "an I 
loves the doctor too." 

"That is really wonderful, and your 
coat," slapping his legs with a riding- 
whip he held, " who made that ? " 

" I dunno," turning the clumsy gar 
ment over with recollection only of the 
great comfort he found therein, for what 
were cut and fit to Jerry ? " Joe he gin 
it to me, an its rale warm, it are." 

"Rayly?" and Paul threw his hat on 
a neighboring chair, and his cloak on 
top of it. " Well, the doctor are gone 
out, he are," he went on. 

" Doctor s mostly out when I gits har," 
Jerry answered calmly, but not without 
some appreciation of the sarcasm con 
tained in Paul s English ; for he was be 
ginning to realize the great gulf that 
separated his language from that of his 
master, " an I allers waits fur him, an 
I steddys my book tell he comes." 

" You don t say ! " Paul went on, 
showing himself master of the vernac 
ular ; " an when he comes do he say 
youuns is a good boy ? " 

Jerry shook his head quietly enough, 
but the color stole up slowly into his 
dark face. 

"He says, says he, Does youuns 
knows yer lessing, Jerry ? " steadily 
"an I says, says I, I m a-steddyin ," 
taking his place on the accustomed 
stool, " an then," with an expression of 
despair in his eyes that quite amuses 



38 



JERRY. 



Paul, " I tries to say it, an I m thet flus 
tered I can t do nothin ." 

Paul laughed with real amusement in 
his tones this time, and asked his next 
question with an honest desire for infor 
mation. 

"And the doctor looks like a meat- 
axe, don t he ? " 

"A meat-axe !" indignantly, "no, he 
don t nuther ; he says, says he, Jerry, 
try agin, ceppen the doctor he says 
agen, he do." 

" The mischief ! " and Paul poked the 
fire viciously ; " when I miss," he went 
on, " he s as mad as the devil, and does 
everything but fling the book at my head." 

Jerry looked his companion over from 
head to foot, a look of scorn almost. 

"I jest don t believe thet," he said, 
quietly ; "I jest don t b lieve it." 

The quick color sprang into Paul s 
girlish cheeks " The devil ! " he cried 
angrily, looking down on Jerry where 
he sat in his favorite position, with his 
elbows on his knees and his chin in his 
hands " I ll beat the life out of you." 

Jerry shook his head. 

"No, youuns won t, nuther ! " a new 
light of defiance shining in his eyes, 
" and youuns jest better not try it." 

Paul laughed lightly, already half 
ashamed of threatening such an enemy. 

" You need not be so uppish ! " he 
said, with great contempt ; " do you sup 
pose I would touch such a dirty little 
beggar as you are ? You are a fool ! " 

The color deepened in Jerry s face, 
and slowly he rose from his place as 
the full meaning of Paul s words reached 
his mind. 

" I ain t no beggar," and he drew his 
slim figure to its full height, " an I ain t 
dirty ; an youuns kin jest take thet for 
youuns lyin words ; " and before Paul 
could move to defend himself could in 
any way realize what was coming Jer 
ry s rough hand struck him fairly in the 
mouth. 

But that was all Jerry did, for in a 
second Paul s soft, plaited riding-whip 
was wrapping itself round Jerry s back 
and shoulders in quick, stinging blows, 
blinding, bitter blows that fell with be 
wildering rapidity ! 

It lasted only for a moment, then the 
smaller boy s arms, hardened by toil, 
were wrapped tightly about Paul s body, 



and Jerry, strong with rage and hatred, 
bore him relentlessly back, heedless of 
all obstacles, until Paul s spurs caught 
and he crashed down among the chairs 
and stools, and in an instant, before he 
could at all realize what was being done, 
Jerry was sitting on top of him. 

" Now jest dar to say ther doctor s a 
meat-axe ! " he cried, emphasizing his 
words by tapping his finger on the end 
of Paul s nose, "an jest dar to say thet 
I se a beggar an dirty jest youuns dar 
to say it, an I ll just gouge youuns eyes 
plum out," giving Paul s nose a little 
tweak. 

" I will kill you ! " Paul cried, in a 
fury, trying in vain to free his arms 
from where Jerry pinned them with his 
knees ; "damn you ! let me get up I ll 
tell the doctor I ll have you put in jail 
I ll kill you ! " 

" When youuns gits up," Jerry an 
swered, quietly, his success having re 
stored his temper ; " but I se agoin to 
set right har atopper youuns tell the 
doctor comes, I is ; ef youuns Hows 
thet I m agoin to let youuns git up an 
beat me agin, youuns is got the wrong 
pig by the leg, sure ; I ain t agoin to stir, 
I ain t." 

" Let me get up, I say," and Paul s 
voice sounded constrained, for a dread 
ful thought had come to him suppose 
the servants should find him in this hor 
rible position ! and his pride put its 
flag at half-mast : "I will not touch you, 
I promise," then one step lower "I 
will pay you, Jerry, just let me get up ? " 
pleadingly " and I will never say a 
word about it." 

" An youuns ll take back what youuns 
cussed me ?" gravely. 

"Yes." 

"An"bout the doctor?" 

" Yes." 

" Well, I don t much keer," patroniz 
ingly. " Git up," and Jerry sprang nim 
bly from off his fallen enemy, "but don t 
youuns never furgit this dirty beggar," 
with stinging sarcasm ; "an "thet trick 
of ketchin a feller roun the legs is a 
rale good un , you bet ; a boy cross the 
mounting tole me thet ; it s been a long 
time, but I ain t never furgitted it, an 
to-day it come in rale handy ; " but Paul 
had gone, in silent, unspeakable rage, 
slamming the door after him. 



JERRY. 



What a black disgrace ! How could 
he ever revenge it how could a gentle 
man retaliate on this little vagabond 
this vagabond he had waited to see? 
" But I U pay him off if it takes my whole 
life," and locking the door of his room, 
he cast himself down on his bed and 
cried like a girl. 

And in the study Jerry was putting 
the chairs straight, and shaking his head 
in a threatening way as he swept the 
hearth. He was too much excited to 
study, and at the same time very much 
pleased by the realization of his newly 
discovered strength. 

"I gits it a-cuttin wood," he said, 
feeling his arms, " an I ll git some mo , 
cause it come in rale handy ; " then he 
sat down with his elbows on his knees 
and his chin in his hands, gazing into 
the fire. 

What kind of person was this boy he 
had whipped ? who was he ? and where 
did he come from ? and what made him 
so fine ? He talked like the doctor, and 
his hands and his voice were like a child s 
what was it that made them so differ 
ent ? they were both boys. 

" An he looked at me like I was a 
dorg, he did," the color coming into his 
face again, " but I punched hisn s nose 
good, I did ; but he s rale purty rayly 
purty," thoughtfully, as Paul s fair face 
came up before him. Still, he shook his 
head as he said " It s rale purty, but 
thar s a leak sommers," and he could not 
like it. 

CHAPTER XDI. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain 
For the reed that grows never more again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 

AND the doctor, coming in with an 
open letter in his hand, sat down as if 
worn with a weariness deeper than that 
of body, and closed his eyes with but one 
glance in the direction of the boy. Jerry 
sat quite still. What ailed the doctor? 
and anxiously watching him, all thought 
of Paul and the recent fray passed from 
his mind. Was the doctor sick ? was he 
going to die like Lije Milton? and a 
great terror came over the child. To 
die like Lije Milton ! The doctor die 
then the wider question, must every 
body die ? It had never occurred to him 



before, this idea, and who would bury 
the last one ? But the doctor, who saved 
everyone ; what would become of all the 
people if he should die? Maybe he was 
dead now ! And the boy was afraid to 
move, while his heart was rising up with 
in him, swelling with this great imagin 
ary pain. 

"I ll jest die too," and in his preoccu 
pation he said the words aloud, rousing 
the doctor, who opened his eyes with a 
sigh. 

" What is it, Jerry ? " he asked. 

"I were feared youuns were dead," 
was answered, hesitatingly, "an I llowed 
I d die too." 

" Not just yet for either of us," and 
the doctor held out his hand for the 
book. Then suddenly it came to Jerry s 
mind that he did not know his lesson, and 
he began to feel anxious about the affair 
with Paul what would the doctor say? 

" I don t reckon I knows it," he began, 
not for one moment doubting that con 
fession was a necessity. 

"Well." 

"Well," slowly, "thar were a feller 
in here when I come a rale purty fel 
ler," gravely, "an he says, says ee, 
Does youuns love lessings ? Says I, I 
do. Says ee, What do the doctor do 
when youuns don t knows em ? Says I, 
He says, Jerry, try agin. Says ee, The 
doctor looks at me liker meat-axe, says 
ee, an mos chucks the book at my 
head. Says I, I don t b lieve it, " his 
face beginning to color with the recent 
excitement ; " then I furgits rightly 
what corned next, cause I were so mad ; 
but he cussed me a dirty beggar, he did," 
his fists involuntarily doubling them 
selves, " an I ups an knocks him in the 
mouth, I did, an he licked me liker 
dorg ! " 

"What?" and the doctor sat up 
straight in his chair as the long story 
climaxed so astonishingly. 

"Don t git skeered," and Jerry put 
his hand reassuringly on the doctor s 
shoulder, " I never hurted him much ; I 
jest tripped him up an sot on him, I did, 
an I punched hisn s nose till he asked 
me please to git up, he did ; but I never 
hurted him much." 

The doctor was smiling now, a smile 
that broke over his face as the sunlight 
breaks through a cloud, and lighted up 



JERRY. 



and transfigured every line of it, making 
it look as it must have done in his youth 
when all the untried, beautiful years and 
days lay before him where to choose ; 
then his face became grave once more, 
and the lines about his lips hardened as 
the thought came to him, " Would Paul 
tell him of this difficulty ? " He thought 
not, Paul told him nothing. 

" I do not suppose that you did hurt 
him," he began, coldly, " but I do not 
like it, and you must not fight in my 
house ; as long as you are here, Jerry, 
you must behave like a gentleman." 

" What s thet?" quietly. 

Again a smile flitted across the doc 
tor s lips ; the boy was so unconscious, 
and he answered : " I am a gentleman." 

Jerry stood and looked at him with a 
curious wonder growing in his eyes. 

"An youuns How as I kin be like 
youuns ? " drawing a long breath ; " nary 
time, an it s no use a-tryin it ; youuns 
kin jest as easy make a hick ry stick outer 
sourwood, jest as easy ; " then more slow 
ly, " but I d like to," and his patient 
eyes looked wistfully at his friend. 

" We must try, Jerry," and the doctor 
laid his hand kindly on the boy. 

"I will," the narrow face lighting up 
in its earnestness. "I ll jest do ever 
blessed thing youuns says, I will," and a 
new future, a grand, overwhelming pos 
sibility, opened before the child. 

To be like the doctor : a thought that 
had only dimly dawned on him when the 
question came up of his learning to read ; 
that had never been a defined thought, 
but only a glimmer of light that for one 
instant had shone and faded. And now it 
had been put before him not only as a 
possibility, but as an expectation, and an 
end set for him by the exemplar himself. 
Jerry drew a long breath as he stood 
there trying to realize this great thing ; 
stood there rough and untrained, ig 
norant and a pauper, and set this end 
before himself. Heretofore he had been 
one of many who only lived from day to 
day ; to whom life is an accident that for 
some is smooth, and for some rough ; 
now he had begun another journey with 
an end that seemed far more impossible 
to him than the "Golden Gates" had 
seemed. To try to be something, to try 
to rise, presented a far more vague and 



intangible outline to him than the effort 
to reach some place had done. A reali 
zation of this future was impossible, and 
he came back to the original suggestion 
as to something he could take hold of. 
He knew the doctor ; every day he saw 
him, touched him, spoke to him ; and 
he could grasp this first proposition of 
trying to be like him. 

" An I will," he said, speaking aloud 
as if he were alone, "I will if it kills me. * 

And that night, when the bitter wind 
howled up and down the mountains, 
driving the snow until it banked high 
against Joe s little house ; and Joe in 
front of the roaring fire smoked, and 
told of dark danger in the heavy snows 
Jerry sitting there scarcely heard, for 
he was looking at his future in the 
flames, and wondering. And in the 
midst of the most thrilling of the stories 
he got up from where he squatted on 
the hearth, and drew a chair forward. 

Joe paused. 

" I llows as youuns ain t a-listenin ," 
he said, in a rather injured tone. 

" Yes, I is," and Jerry seated himself 
in the chair gravely, " but I llows as I d 
ruther hev a cheer ; the doctor don t 
never sit on the flo ; leastways. I ain t 
never sawn him a-doin it." 

" The Lord hev mussy ! " and for 
many minutes Joe sat silent, regarding 
his small companion with doubtful looks. 
"Air youuns crazy, Jeremiah P. Wilker- 
son?" he said at last, "jest plum crazy? " 

Jerry shook his head. 

" The doctor llows I mus be a gen 
tleman," he answered, "jest like him 
ezackly ; an I will," nodding his head 
complacently, " I will if it kills me ! " 

" An the doctor llows to give youuns 
a good buryin ? " Joe asked, with sol 
emn sarcasm. 

" I never axed him," Jerry answered, 
literally ; and as he hitched his heavy 
boot-heels on the rung of the chair, a 
mild sense of self-approval swept over 
him that was like a breath of summer 
air ; and he did not know that Joe s 
story remained unfinished, the narrator 
smoking slowly and in silence, only now 
and then glancing at his preoccupied 
companion. 

"Thet boy air a cur us one, sure," 
Joe s thoughts ran, "a reg lar nubbin." 



(To be continued.) 



3 




Hamilton Gibson. 

THAT is but a superficial student 
of ornithology who is content to know 
his birds by the mere specific charac 
ters of anatomy, plumage, and egg ; 
who shoots his bird and names the 
dead body afterward, by the analytical 

key a songless ornithology. Even though he shall name his speci 
men at a glance Latin tag and all he may yet have less ornithology in his soul 
than his unlettered country cousin the old miller, perhaps, who will tell us that 
" the hang-bird has been there on such a morning, unravelling his bagging or 
stealing his tie string ;" who will point out to us " the teeter-bird that picks the 
water-bugs from the wet stones for his long-legged fuzzy young uns ; " or the 
" little brown chap with speckled breast that builds a nest jest like an oven, year 
after year, down yonder among the weeds below the mill, and calls queeche, 
queeche every time I look out of the window." Does he not know his birds, 
even though he might fail to identify their skins ? 

Even the amusing testimony of the savants of the French Academy who pre 
sented to Cuvier for identification a description of a certain " red fish that walked 
backward " is not without its distinct value. " Of course," replied the naturalist 
instantly, "you mean a crab, though it is not a fish, neither is it red, nor does it 
walk backward." The learned tyro would at least show his "fish" where he 
VOL. VIII. 4 



42 



BIRD CRADLES. 



found it in its native element, and 
though his vision appears to have been 
.somewhat askew, his was a worthier aim 
and attitude than the 
other extreme of exact 
science which has to do 
merely with museum 
specimens, with a ready 
list of synonyms in place ^^Sji 

of an inspiring rem 
iniscence, 
with wire 
and tow as 
a substi 
tute for 
animat ion 
and song. 
" A bird 



its mind, an epitome of its loves, its 
hope, solicitude, providence, its individ 
uality, its energy, caution, intelligence, 







in the hand is worth two in the bush " 
is a pagan motto for the ornitholo 
gist. "The bird is not in its ounces 
and inches," says Emerson, " but in its 
relations to nature ; and the skin or 
skeleton you show me is no more a 
heron than a heap of ashes into which 
his body has been reduced is Dante or 
Washington." The true ornithologist 
knows his bird in the bush before he 
converts it into a specimen ; and to truly 
know his bird in its bush he must have 
been admitted to its home. Neither the 
color of the plumage nor the shape and 
decoration of its egg, while so essential 
in the scientific classification of the bird, 
are any index to its conscious being 
the true bird. Bobolink doffs his white 
cap, not from desire or volition, but be 
cause he can t help it. These functions 
are fulfilled in spite of the bird and are 
beyond his control, while even the finer 
attributes of habits and song may be 
said to be scarcely less spontaneous and 
automatic. 

Not so the nest the home, the cradle. 
In these exquisite fabrics, materializa 
tions of the supreme aspirations in the 
life of the bird, we have at once a key to 




Nest of the Redstart. 

reason and economy, discrimination, 
taste, fancy, even its caprice and whim, 
almost of its humor. 

In their arts we may learn something 
of their mental resources, even as the 
antiquary will find in the remnant dec 
orated relics of an extinct people testi 
monies not disclosed by the mummy. 
To know the nidification and nest-life of 
a bird is to get the cream of its history. 
We may snap our fingers at vocabularies 
and synonyms. 

Even an empty nest is still eloquent 
with interest. A few of them have 
been gathered about me as I write ; and 
how beautiful they are ! Here is one 
picked up at random. Not a rare speci 
men from the tropics, but an every-day 
affair of our country walks. What an 
interesting study of ways and means and 
confident skill ! Hung by its edge from 
a horizontal fork of a maple twig, with a 
third of its circumference unsupported, 
it is yet so boldly wrought that this very 
span shall serve as the perch of the 
parent bird. Its edge is plainly com 
pressed, though barely depressed, by 
evident continual use, and considering 
the nature of the materials at this por 
tion its stability was perfectly insured. 
What nice discrimination in the choice 
of strands by which the nest is anchored 
to the swinging bough, its support being 
almost entirely dependent upon a cer- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



43 



tain brown silk from the cocoon spider 
(Argiope Riparia). 

Often in my rambles have I pulled 
this floss from its round tough cocoon 
suspended among the weeds, and won 
dered whether the loom might not yet 
prove its utility ! And here it is, adjusted 
with artful design just where its need is 
most apparent, and its strength recom 
mends it, lapping and overlapping the 
forks and extending across the span 
from twig to twig where it is interwoven 
and twisted with strong strips of bark 
and long wisps from the stalk of the 
milkweed, or similar hempen substance. 
The economy of this spider silk is mani 
fest in all the five nests of this kind 
which are before me, and while it ap 
pears occasionally lower down in the 
structure, these outcroppings prove to 
be only the ends of the loops which en 
compass the twig and are securely an 
chored among the interwoven meshes of 
the fabric. The reliance of the bird on 
the strength of this material would seem 
perfectly plain, for 
in the nests where 
in it is largely 
employed, much 
fewer strands of 
bark are passed 
about the twigs 
than when the in 
ferior white cob 
web is used at this 
point of support 
a fact which I have 
often noticed. 

The cobweb ele 
ment forms an im 
portant amalgam 
in the nests of all 
the vireos, of which 
the above wih 1 be 
recognized as a 
specimen. Laid 
on in snowy tufts, 
or artfully twisted 
into fine threads 
I cannot believe 
this twisting to be 
accidental mesh 
ed about the bas 
ket framework or 
drawn across some 
precious bit of hor 
net nest or glisten- 



ing yellow birch-bark or newspaper clip 
ping, or hung below in fluffy tassels, it is a 
recognized badge of this particular tribe 
of feathered architects, whose pendent 
nests are among the most picturesque of 
all our birds. The hereditary art of 
nidification of the vireos has probably 
suffered little change through the ages. 
As a rule their nests, unlike those of 
other pensile builders, are wrought from 
nature s own raw materials, and, even as 
we generally find them, might have been 
constructed a thousand miles from the 
haunts of man or a thousand years ago. 
And yet, in one particular respect, it 
must be admitted the nest often betrays 
the degenerating human contact. It is 
an admitted fact that many of the vireos 
manifest a strange fascination for the 
newspaper, fragments of which are often 
a conspicuous contamination in their 
motley fabrics, composed most com 
monly of generous strips of white and 
yellow birch, hornet s nest, dried leaves, 
grape-vine bark, asclepias hemp, bits of 




Allen s Humming Bird at Home. 



44 



BIRD CRADLES. 




The Politician (the White-eyed Vireo). 



wood and pith, and vari 
ous other ingredients. 

It was this well-known 
propensity of the bird that 
won it the name of " the 
Politician" from an orni 
thological friend of Wil 
son ; an appellation espe- 
ially given to the white- 
eyed vireo, although from 
my experience the others 
are equalry deserving of 
the soft impeachment. 

How often have I paused 
in the woods to study the 
strange ingredients of 
these vireos nests, of 
which I have dissected at 
least a hundred, in many 
of which the newspaper 
had formed an element. 
And why is it that I am 
always led with such eager 
quest yes, even at the 
risk of life and limb on one 
occasion to scan these 
ragged, weather-beaten 
fragments of print, as 
though consulting the ora 
cle ! Tis true they usually 
disclose but little intrinsic 
reason for their conspicu 
ous preferment, though I 
do remember one or two 
exceptional instances; 
once in my boyhood, when 
I enjoyed a great laugh 
at the disclosures of one 
such literary fragment, the 
precise nature of which has 
escaped me, save that it 
was an advertisement hav 
ing a comical relation to 
the bird world. But my 
memory is distinct of hav 
ing brought the editorial 
selection home in my poc 
ket, where it was subse 
quently forgotten and re 
duced to pi among the 
jack-knives, buttons, jack- 
stones, and other usual 
concomitants of the small 
boy s outfit. The nest I 
well remember. It was 
suspended in a small 
thicket and variously sup- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



ported by the bend of a bramble and 
stalks of hard-hack and meadow rue. 
I did not see the birds, as the nest was 
abandoned, and though not a typical 
vireo s nest, it was so conspicuously 
decked out with edi 
torials and advertise 
ments that, out of re 
spect to Wilson, I 
was constrained to 
accept it as a bad 
case of " the Politi 
cian." 

It has remained for 
the red - eyed vireo, 
however, to reward 
my curious pains for 
enlightenment as to 
the edito 
rial dis 
crimina 
tion of 
these 



a matter in which the volition of the bird 
had no part whatever ! 

It has always been a favorite pastime 
with me, in my autumn walks, this dis 
secting of abandoned nests of all kinds, 




A Bit of Lace. 



nests, and considering the popular name 
which Wilson has bestowed upon the 
bird, " the Preacher," from its well- 
known habit of launching precepts by 
the hour from its tree-top pulpit the 
text from my nest would certainly seem 
to reinforce his happy title. In this 
nest are about six pieces of newspaper, 
of various jagged shapes and sizes ; but 
among them all the only complete sen 
tence anywhere to be discovered in the 
print and this appearing 1 as though ob 
viously treasured is the following : 
" Have in view the will of God." 

And yet I suppose there are those 
who would affirm that this selection was 



then disclosed to view in the denuded 
woods this unravelling of the warp and 
woof of these nature-woven fabrics, ex 
tracting the secrets of the downy bed of 
warblers, analyzing the queer compo 
nents in the hollow of a stump, picking 
apart the felted masses in deserted wood 
peckers dens, since plainly occupied by 
chickadee, creeper, blue-bird, nuthatch, 
or crested flycatcher, and disclosing by 
the aid of a magnifier a wide variety of 
curious textile elements. How endless 
and whimsical the choice of building 
materials for which nature has been laid 
in tribute by the bird, from the tree-top 
cradles of the orioles to the soft feather- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



beds of the wrens, the curled-hair mat 
tress of the chipping sparrow, the bas 
ket cribs of the starlings among the 
rushes, the mossy snuggeries of the 
oven bird, and the adobe of swallow, 
phcebe, and robin, with their various 




In the Track of the Coon. 
(A Vireo searching for hairs for nest-lining.) 



preferences of pine-roots, bark, strings, 
feathers, hornet s nest, caterpillar hairs, 
wool, skeletonized leaves, cobwebs, spi 
der-egg tufts, fur of various animals, 
pappus of seeds of all sorts dandelion, 
thistle, cat-tail willow gleaned from the 
thickets, the trees, the air, the 
barnyard, the stable, the poul 
try-yard, even from your ves 
tibule door-mat or window- 
sill. 

The individual preferences 
of a few of our more common 
birds afford a number of inter 
esting facts. " When I want a 
horse -hair for my compass- 
sight," says Thoreau, "I must 
go to the stable ; but the hair- 
bird, with her sharp eyes, goes 
to the road." The nest of the 
chipping sparrow is common 
ly lined with horse-hair, a 
fact which has won the 
name of hair-bird to the 
species ; although sev 
eral others of the spar 
rows, notably the field 
sparrow and song 
sparrow, are equall} T 
partial to this particu 
lar carpet for their 
nursery. Burroughs 
recounts the bold in 
cident of a sparrow 
picking a hair from 
the body of a 
horse. Who 
ever sees a 
coon-hair in 
the woods ? 
\ And yet here 
is the soli- 
/ tary v i r e o 
that gleans 
in the craf 
ty trail of 
that animal, 
through fern 
and brier 
and hollow 
logs, and 
rarely fails to 
feather her 
nest with the 
soft fur. 
What is the 
secret of this 



BIRD CRADLES. 




peculiar pref 
er enc e ? In 
the wilder re- 



whim or humor of the build- 
Twigs, strips of tough 
bark, string, wiry roots, grass, 
spider silk, cocoons, vege 
table strands of one kind and 
another, all appeal to our sense of the fit 
ness of things, but what special advan 
tage is indicated in the following instance 
of caprice ? Here is the worm-eating war 
bler, for instance, whose nest is seldom 



gions of the 

country the hair of the deer is also said 

to be a common substitute or accompani- free from dried hickory and chestnut cat- 
ment. Certain observers claim that the kins. The oven bird s hut is generally in- 
red-eyed vireo has an occasional fancy termeshed with fruiting stems of urn 
for squirrel-hair, which is sometimes moss, with their dried spore-caps. The 
found in considerable quantities in its Nashville warbler is partial to a mesh of 
nest. I have found what I have assumed pine needles and horse-hair ; while the 
to be the abandoned nest of the solitary purple finch considers hog-bristles and 
vireo, distinguished mainly from the horse-hair a more suitable compound, 
others by the hairy lining and the em- The Kentucky warbler, and various 
ployment of moss and lichen within the other warblers, show a preference for 
interior ; one nest being plentifully the pith of weeds. Perhaps the prairie 
lined with sheep wool from a neighbor- warbler has discovered some rare virtue 



ing pasture. The snow-bunting would 
be at a loss in its boreal nest without the 
fur of the arctic fox. Various of these 



in cast-off caterpillar skins that ordi 
nary humanity cannot guess. Its nest, 
I am told, usually showing a penchant 



cradle-building ingredients readily rec- toward this singular ingredient. 



ommend their utility in the qualities of 
strength, pliability, warmth, etc., while 
others again are only to be accounted 
for on the hypothesis of the passing 



But this bird is not alone in this odd 
choice, of which others of the warblers 
and the vireos occasionally avail them 
selves. In addition to spider silk, and 



48 



BIRD CRADLES. 




cocoon silk, I have occasionally discov 
ered evidences that the web-tent of the ap 
ple-tree caterpillar is occasionally raid 
ed for material, having identified num 
bers of the caterpillar skins among 
the web meshes of the vireos and 
redstart. The oriole visits the web- 
nest too, but on a different errand 
for her cradle. I once observed one of 
these birds mysteriously prying about 
one of these tents. It left me hardly 
time to guess its object, but quickly 
thrust its head through the silken 
walls and took its pick of the 
fattest caterpillars in the squirm- 
interior, carrying them to 
what it evi 
dently consid 
ered as more 
appropriate 
surroundings 
in the hang- 
nest above. I 
once found a 
nest of the 
red-eye which 
exhibited a 
marked ento 
mological pref 
erence, being 
composed 
largely of the 
hairy cocoons 
of the small 

tussock moth, and conspicuously deco 
rated with a hundred or more of the 
black skins of the antiopa caterpillar, of 
all ages. What a singular waste of en 
ergy one would naturally think was 
here revealed in the search for a material 
which at best must be a rare ingredient 
in the wild gleaning. But the inference 
does injustice to the bird s intelligence. 
Assuming that there is an advantage in 
the material, and granting the bird even 
a school-boy s knowledge of the habits 
of a conspicuous insect, few substances 
could be acquired at a less expense of time 
than these withered skins ; for the cater 
pillars of the antiopa live in swarms of hun 
dreds, sometimes of thousands, in the elms 
and swamp willows, and leave their black, spiny, 
cast-off skins of all their five periodic moults 
attached to the denuded branches upon which the 
larvae have fed. 

In another amusing specimen I found a large 
piece of hornet s nest, four inches broad, arranged 




BIRD CRADLES. 



as a pendant, and dangling from this a 
string of brilliants that glittered like 
emeralds, and which proved to be three 
dead bluebottle flies entangled in spi 
der silk. Whether or not the bird had 
appreciated the especial attractions 
of some particular remnant of 
cob-web thus enriched, or had 
deliberately adjusted the flies by 
way of ornament, I could not 




A Specialist in Snake-skins (the Crested Flycatcher) 



determine. But it is undeniable that 



In the same bush I 
discovered, later, a small, 
narrow wisp of lace, 
abandoned to the antagonism 
of the thorns, though not without 
obvious evidences of struggle and 
disappointment fresh commentary 
on a well-known text in proverbial 
philosophy. 

There is obvious wisdom in the use 
of cocoons and hornets nests, so much 



a similar decorative sense is frequently sought after by pensile builders corn- 
displayed in their nests, certain rare pact, tough fabrics in themselves, they 
treasures being held in reserve for fin- are naturally chosen for their strength. 

But it is not easy to explain, on any 
grounds of utilitv, the uncanny discrim- 



ishing touches of adornment, even as I 
once actually witnessed the careful ad 



justment of a bright green iridescent ination of the great crested flycatcher 
feather of a peacock beneath a pendent whose nest in the hollow tree would 

* X _ - i i 1 J ^J. K,, 



nest in a rose-bush just 
closed blinds of my room. 



outside the seem to demand no thought for other 
What twit- qualities than softness and warmth. 



terings of congratulation, mutual sug- Once, in my boyhood, while investigat- 
gestion, and experimental touches ere ing the fascinating hollow in an old wil- 
the dainty prize found its final setting ! low-tree, where I had once surprised a 



50 



BIRD CRADLES. 



day-dozing owl, I found the familiar matted felt at the bottom largely inter 
mixed with fragments of snake-skin. Knowing the habits of snakes" in the 
casting of their skins, having once or twice found them in the grass, I fell to 
wondering whether it could be a common practice of the black snake or "racer," 
to climb a tree for the purpose of exuviation. Later on the mystery was solved, 
having learned in my ornithology that the great crested flycatcher considered the 
snake-skin the ne plus ultra of nest-linings. The nidification of this bird usually 
takes place in the deserted retreat of the woodpecker, and is seldom without its 
complement of one or more snake-skins, which are frequently interwoven in a bed 
of hog-bristles and feathers, rather indicating a peculiar fancy for exuviae. 

But here, again, who knows but what some stray vireo s nest those catch-alls, 
samplers of nature s nest-textiles may not have given the flycatcher the hint. 

I have a vireo s nest in my possession which is 
largely composed of snake-skins, and they are fre 
quently thus found. 

I The purple finch, according to some authorities, 

is addicted to a similar whim occasionally. Of 
course, either of these exceptional cases may rep 
resent nothing more than a successful raid on some 
abandoned nest of the flycatcher. 

The toad is said to habitually swallow its cast-off 
skin, in which case the red-eye must have once 
surprised him in the gastronomic act, for in one 
of my analyses of these nests, I discovered an un 
mistakable fragment of one of these skins, tipped 
with its tiny pellucid glove. 

The winged seeds of plants are a staple article 
in the harvest for the nests. The great order of 




Composites feathers the cra 
dles of thousands of our birds, 
enveloping their egg -treas 
ures or fledglings in a bed 
as soft as swan s down ; the 
plumy seeds of thistle, milk 
weed, dandelion, and lettuce 
being probably the most fav 
ored. 

Nuttall gives us a pretty 
picture of the home-building 
whims of the yellow warbler 
a prize for the cabinet 
truly ! 

" The nest is extremely neat 



& 



The Dandelion Mystery Solved. 
(A Redstart nest-building.) 



BIRD CRADLES. 



51 



and durable ; the exterior is formed 
of layers of silk weed lint, glutinously 
though slightly attached to the support 
ing twig, mixed with some slender strips 
of fine bark and pine leaves and thickly 
bedded with the down of willows, the 
Nankeen wool of 
the Virginia cot 
ton grass (Erio- 
phorum Virgini- 
cum), the down of 
fine stalks, the hair 
of the downy seeds 
of the buttonwood 
(Platanus), or the 
pappus of com 
pound flowers, and 
then lined either 
with fine bent ,, 
grass (Agrostis) or 
down and horse 
hair, and, rarely, 
with a few acci 
dental feathers," 
presenting a fanci 
ful bit of bird ar 
chitecture as well 
as a keen piece of 
analysis, in which 
the erudite botan 
ist is as conspicu 
ous as the orni 
thologist. 

One other "yel 
low bird," the gold 
finch, builds a sim 
ilarly exquisite 

home, but reserves its nesting till a much 
later season than most of our birds, a 
fact which has caused no little discussion 
among naturalists ; the commonly ac 
cepted, though hardly satisfactory, the 
ory having reference to a scarcity of the 
required seed-food for the young during 
the vernal months. In a similar vein of 
reasoning it might be claimed that the 
nesting was deferred to await the ripen 
ing of certain favorite plumy seeds of 
which the structure is usually composed. 
One theory is as good as the other, for 
both are somewhat shattered by numer 
ous instances of nidification as early as 
the middle of May, in which the nest is 
of course composed of seasonable downy 
elements ; for the willows and poplars 
then offer their silken tribute, and the 
dandelion balls cloud the meadows. 



For some years I was puzzled to ac 
count for a certain mutilation which I 
had often observed on the dandelion. 
As is well known to some of my readers, 
the dandelion usually blooms three con 
secutive days ; after which the calyx 




A Good Place for a Wren s Nest. 

finally closes about the withered flow T er, 
and withdraws beneath the leaves. Here 
it remains for a week or more, its stem 
gradually lengthening while the seeds 
are maturing, until, on the fourteenth 
day from the date of first flowering, the 
smoky ball expands. For some days 
prior to this fulfilment the seeds are 
practically full feathered, the growing 
pappus having forced the withered petals 
from the tip of the calyx. On several 
occasions I have observed the side of 
their calyxes torn asunder and the in 
terior completely emptied of its con 
tents of a hundred or more winged 
seeds. I had attributed the theft to 
some whimsical caterpillar appetite, un 
til one day I surprised the true burglar in 
the act. I observed a small blackbird 
suspiciously in the grass, 



52 



BIRD CRADLES. 



and suddenly saw him fly to a branch 
near by with a tiny puff in his bill a 
downy tuft on one side and a bundle of 
seeds on the other the spot from which 
he flew disclosing one of the tell-tale 
rifled calyxes of the dandelion. The 
bird, not immediately identified, soon 




\a 



Ruby Throat Humming Bird, Blue-gray 
Gnatcatcher, and Black-and-white 
Warbler. 



spread its name abroad in the rosy 
gleam from its fan-shaped tail the red 



start. I subsequently discovered the 
nest in a low-hanging fork of an apple- 
tree, and a dainty structure it was, ex 
quisitely adorned with gray moss and 
skeleton leaves and in this case showing 
an unusual preference for dandelion 
seeds, with which its soft bulk was well 
felted. Inas 
much as there 
were thousands 
of the dande 
lion bulbs open 
ing every sunny 
day this feat of 
forage was not 
one of anticipa 
tion of a natu 
ral harvest; 
rather a ques 
tion of econo 
my of labor a 
whole dande 
lion ball at one 
compact pinch. 
Wilson gives 
the nest mate 
rial of the yel 
low warbler as 

silk-weed floss and willow cotton, "which 
present a singular incongruity as to 
chronology, the willow cotton being a 
buoyant feature of the May breeze, 
while the asclepias does not take wing 
until late August and September, the 
silky seeds of the previous year being 
then of course obliterated. Is it possible 
that the warbler, like the redstart, may 
anticipate the bursting pod by an occa 
sional burglary, assisted perhaps by 
those hairy caterpillars which so often 
lay bare the interior ? How else the bird 
could procure the material is a mystery. 
The " cat-tail " is an inexhaustible 
store of down for the later nest-builders. 
Packed with incredible compactness in 
its cylindrical equilibrium, when once 
ruptured the keystone among the feath 
ered seeds once removed as it were 
what a revelation ! The magician s in 
exhaustible hat is not a circumstance to 
it. Rolling out in fluffy masses, a very 
effervescence of down, which seems to 
multiply to infinity even after launching 
in the air. Unless my estimate of bird- 
wisdom is much overwrought, it finds 
its way into many a warm nest. 

But it is not alone to the soft seeds 



BIRD CRADLES. 



53 



of plants that the nests are indebted for 
their downy lining. Here is another 
picture of a dainty home, and one that 
may be verified in the woods if our eyes 
are only sharp enough. If the nest of 
the yellow warbler is a chef d ceuvre what 
shall be said of this, the work of the 
small blue-gray gnatcatcher, one of the 
most refined art-treasures among our 
native nests ? It is usually hung among 
the twigs of a tree, somewhat like that 
of a vireo, though sometimes placed on a 
branch. The body of the nest is closely 
felted together with the softest materi 
als of the forest bird scales, dried blos 
soms, vegetable downs, and the delicate 
cottony substance which envelopes the 
unfolding fronds of fern, with flexible 
skeletons of leaves as an external frame 
work. The rim of the nest is generally 
contracted. But the most marked feat 
ure of the structure is its ornamenta 
tion ; the whole exterior being closely 
thatched with small, brightly-colored, 
greenish- gray lichen. 

The woolly, unrolling fronds of many 
of our ferns are a familiar feature of the 
spring woods, and offer at this season, 
and later, from the mature stems, a 
tempting crop to a number of our more 
diminutive birds, including the various 
warblers, the black and white creeper, 
and humming-bird, etc. 

This exquisitely soft, buff-colored ma 
terial, for convenience called "fern-cot 
ton," however, is not all from the ferns. 
A close analysis with the magnifier dis 
closes a diversity of elements. Some of 
it has been sheared from the mullein. 
The woolly bloom from young linden 
leaves and buds of white and red oak 
have already been identified in the sub 
stance, the stems of everlasting have fur 
nished a generous share, and there are 
doubtless elements from a hundred other 
sources best known to the birds. Some 
of it, too, has already served in the winter 
snuggery of the horse-chestnut bud be 
neath the varnished scales. 

I once observed a tiny bird, presum 
ably a kinglet, gleaning among the open 
ing leaves, now webbed and festooned 
with the liberated soft yellow down, 
that most beautiful of all the spring s 
revelations of bursting buds, so aptly 
figured by Lowell in the provincial 
tongue of Hosea Biglow : 
VOL. VIII. 5 



" The gray hoss-chestnut s leetle hands unfold 
Softer n a baby s be at three days old." 

How irresistibly does this recall that 
companion couplet in the "Pastoral 
line " from the same memorable para 
graph, so true to the spirit of the vernal 
season : 

"In ellum shrouds the flashin hang-bird 

clings 

An for the summer vy ge his hammock 
slings. ?> 

For the skilful nests of the vireos have 
yet their matchless pattern in the work 
of that prince of weavers, the "hang- 
bird," or Baltimore oriole, whose swing 
ing, pendulous nest is a masterpiece, 
not only of textile art, but equally of 
constructive skill, whether from an en 
gineering or architectural point of view. 
What sagacious perception of means and 
intelligent discrimination in their em 
ployment are here disclosed ! The trite 
maxim that " the strength of a chain is 
only that of its weakest link " would seem, 
on a superficial glance at the nest, to be 
entirely ignored by the oriole, the at 
tachment of the nest often seeming to 
exhibit a daring dearth of material and 
in singular contrast to the elaborate 
density of the weaving below. A closer 
examination, however, shows a most sa 
gacious compensation in the economy 
of this apparently weak portion, for here 
it will be found in almost every instance 
the toughest fibre in the entire nest has 
been concentrated, in most cases that 
have come under my observation ; and 
in three specimens now before me, con 
sisting of remnants of strings, fish - line, 
strips of cloth securely twisted and 
looped around the forked or drooping 
twigs, the loose ends below being intri 
cately interwoven among the gray hem 
pen fibres of which the body of the nest 
is composed, the whole structure being 
literally sewed through and through 
with long horse-hairs. 

Remembering Wilson s investigations 
into the similarly compact nest-fabric 
of the orchard oriole, from which he dis 
entangled a strand of grass only thirteen 
inches long, but which in that distance 
was thirty-four times hooked through 
and returned in the meshes, the relation 
of which fact led an old lady acquaint- 



54 



BIRD CRADLES. 



ance of his to ask whether " it would not 
be possible to teach the birds to darn 
stockings," I was led to test the darn 
ing skill of the hang-bird which uses 
the horse-hair in true regulation style. 
With much labor I succeeded in follow 
ing a single hair through fourteen 
passes from outside to interior in the 
length of about ten inches, which I was 
then quite willing to assume as an aver 
age as to the total, which would doubt 
less have reached at least thirty stitches. 
When this is multiplied by the hundreds 
of similar sinews with which the body 
of the nest is compacted some idea may 
be formed of its strength. 

Two types of the nest, both beautiful 
specimens, are now before me. One, a 
true example of the " hang-nest," being 
suspended from the tips of the long, 
drooping branches of an elm, while the 
other, more ample, is hung from a hori 
zontal fork of a maple. It is larger at 
the mouth than the first, but like it is 
suspended from stout strings, twisted 
round and round the twigs and spanning 
the fork. For a long period the nature 
of this peculiar gray hempen fibre which 
forms the bulk of the oriole s nest was a 
puzzle. And even now that the tough 
material has been identified principally 
as the dried strips of the stalks of com 
mon milkweed, which Nuttall observed 
the bird to tear from the plants " and 
hackle into flax," I am not aware that 
the hint of the oriole, as to its evident 
utility as a textile for the spinning-wheel 
or loom, has ever been respected. A 
strip of this tough dried bark, even when 
drawn firmly across the finger-nail, 
separates into the finest of flax, almost 
reminiscent of the milkweed seed-floss 
in its white glossy sheen. 

The oriole s nests are not all made in 
the same mould nor of the same mate 
rial, but generally reflect the resources 
of the locality in which they are built. 
There are numerous instances of anom 
alous nests, in which the eager quest 
of the bird has been artfully humored 
by the housewife, or the ornithological 
curio hunter, resulting in works of ques 
tionable art sophisticated with all man 
ner of contaminations rags and rib 
bons, tape and lampwick, or perhaps pa 
triotic pendants flying the national colors 
of red, white, and blue, in particolored 



zones and strips of red flannel. In con 
trast to these I cannot but revert with 
relief to that beautiful fancy which Chad- 
wick has woven into one of these beau 
tiful nests, and in which the intertwined 
golden and silvery locks of childhood 
and old age tell a pathetic story. 

In one case at least the hint of the 
oriole would appear to have been appre 
ciated, his nest having first introduced 
to the public the utility of the black 
flexible compound which is so common 
an ingredient toward the centre of our 
costly " curled-hair " mattresses. 

During a recent Southern trip I noted 
one or two of these pendulous mat 
tresses of the oriole, their black color 
giving little hint to the observer of the 
gray Southern moss of which they are 
really constructed. In the Long Island 
Historical Booms there is a specimen 
of one of these Southern nests, fully 
eighteen inches long, composed entirely 
of this glossy black fibre a veritable 
piece of hair -cloth to all appearances, 
no single thread, I believe, showing its 
familiar gray complexion, the entire ma 
terial having been presumably abstracted 
from the drying-poles of the "moss gath 
erers," beneath whose arts the Southern 
moss is converted into " genuine curled 
hair" by the rotting and subsequent 
removal of the gray covering, leaving 
only the black shiny core, which is duly 
shipped and subsequently sold and 
" warranted " at fifty cents a pound. 

In strong contrast to the foregoing 
products of warp and woof is the hum 
bler art of the plastic builders the 
adobe-dwellers among our birds. Of 
such are the robin true child of the 
sod, with its domicile of mud and coarse 
grass and the thrushes generally, the 
phcebe, pewee, and the swallows. Solid 
and substantial fair-weather structures, 
they are yet far inferior in the scale of 
architectural intelligence ; for while in 
the textile nests even a drenching rain 
serves but to amalgamate the mass, the 
mud-builders are often at the mercy of 
the storm ; a possible fate which is not 
always anticipated in the selection of a 
building site. In the case of the swal 
low beneath the eaves, and the phcebe 
under the bridge, the home is safe, but 
the robin occasionally pays a heavy 
penalty for the daring exposure of its 



BIRD CRADLES. 



55 



nest, the fair structure of the sunshine 
literally melting away in the rain. Dur 
ing the past wet season two such mishaps 
occurred upon my lawn, the nests having 
disentangled and fallen in a shapeless 
mass, scattering the egg contents upon 
the ground. 

Recently I chanced upon another 
reckless nest, that of the yellow-billed 
cuckoo, or rain-crow, in the top of an 
apple-tree, if, indeed, the loose pile of 
sticks could be dignified by the name of 
nest at all, being more suggestive of a 
gridiron, through which the outlines of 
the head and the long projecting tail 
of the bird were distinctly perceptible 
against the sky. As I climbed the tree 
the bird new to the neighboring branches, 
uttering an occasional hoarse croak in 
its familiar tone, obedient as it were, to 
a periodic pumping stroke of the long 
tail. I- found the nest occupied by a sin 
gle fledgling, and was moved to congrat 
ulate the remnant for having managed 
to reach his pin-feather days without 
tumbling out of bed, which I fancied 
must have been the fate of his presum 
ably former bed-fellows, for the edge of 
the open pile of sticks was lower than 
the centre whereon he rested. 

Examples of this sort of nest-building 
are happily not common, and in the case 
of this bird, a near congener to the Eu 
ropean cuckoo, though entirely without 
its parasitic habits, it would seem to have 
a somewhat parallel sin of shiftlessness. 
In all the four nests of this bird which 
I have found, this contributory negli 
gence toward the destruction of its off 
spring has been manifest. My fancy 
has sometimes suggested the query 
whether this may not be an example of 
the process of evolution from a lower 
parasitical to a higher state, the dawn 
ing intelligence in the art of nest-build 
ing. 

The turtle-dove is accused of a like 
carelessness in the construction of its 
nest. The night-hawk and the whip- 
poor-will, though building no nest at 
all, are more considerate of their babes, 
at least assuring them against the fate 
of the* cuckoo s brood by nesting on the 
ground. 

Last summer I was favored with a 
rare neighbor in the shape of a red 
headed woodpecker, not a common 



visitant in Connecticut, at least in the 
section familiar to me. Eemembering 
that this was the bird whose flashing 
plumage and flaming scarlet head kin 
dled the ornithological fervor of Wilson, 
which led to his subsequent fame, my 
visitor came doubly recommended. The 
nest was excavated on the under side of 
a large branch of an apple-tree near the 
house ; and even though naturally safe 
from observation, the bird seemed little 
desirous of concealment, pirouetting 
about the elm trunk close by the win 
dow and speeding like a rocket directly 
to its nest. 

At first thought the peculiar condi 
tions of the woodpecker s nest would ap 
pear to offer advantages of safety above 
those of other birds, as in truth it does, 
being at least secure against the hawks 
and owls and foxes. Yet it is by no means 
invulnerable. The black snake has a 
well-known fancy for young woodpeckers, 
and has often been surprised within the 
burrow, to the horror of the small boy 
oologist, perhaps, who is thinking only 
of the rare white eggs as he feels the 
depths of the hollow. The birds are 
also an easy prey to the murderous red 
squirrel, one of the arch enemies of our 
nesting birds. Last year two of my 
woodpecker fledglings fell his victims, 
and only a few weeks since a whole fam 
ily of flickers, which built in a large 
neighboring maple, were well-nigh ex 
terminated by the same brigand. Two 
fully pinioned fledglings were found 
dead on the ground beneath the hole, 
each with an ugly gash at the throat, and 
one of which the squirrel was observed 
dragging by the head, while endeavor 
ing to ascend the trunk treating birds 
like pine-cones dropping his cone first 
to enjoy it at his leisure. But one 
survivor of the brood was seen later, and 
this doubtless followed the fate of the 
others. The woodpeckers, in addition 
to serving their own ends, are also pio 
neers for a number of smaller fry among 
the birds, the deserted tunnels being in 
great demand for apartments, and of 
ten a prize won only by supreme strat 
egy or victory among the bluebirds, 
nut hatches, creepers, wrens, and chicka 
dees, though the last has been known to 
excavate its own domicile. Indeed, to the 
wren a hole of any kind possesses great 



56 



BIRD CRADLES. 



attraction, it "will build in anything 
that has an accessible cavity, from an old 
boot to a bombshell," says Burroughs. 
But whether a palatial tin box, a post- 
hole, a tin oil-can, auger-hole, pump- 
spout, pocket of an old coat, wheel-hub, 
or tomato-can, the interior is always 
brought to the same level of luxury in 
its copious feather-bed. 

I remember once, in the days of my 
early ornithological fervor, discovering 
a wren s nest in a shallow knot-hole of 
an old apple-tree. The bird scolded and 
sputtered at the entrance like a typical 
setting hen, and even suffered herself to 
be poked from the hole ; and if there be 
those who think that birds cannot swear, 
they should have witnessed the subse 
quent vocal exercises. The feather-bed 
disclosed twelve pinkish eggs by actual 
count, for I remember in humiliation my 
scandalous pride at having "eleven du 
plicates for trade." 

There are a number of especially well- 
known favorites among the nests which 
should be mentioned, either one of which 
is a sufficient quest for a summer s 
walk. 

There is the grass hammock of the in 
digo bird, so artfully swung between two 
or three upright branches of weed ; the 
skilfully woven basket of the red-wing 
blackbird in the bog, either meshed 
within its tussock, twisted into the but 
ton-bush, or suspended among the reeds. 
Then there are the quaint covered nests 
of the oven bird at the edge of the 
brook, the bee-hive of the marsh-wren 
among the sedges, or the Maryland yel 
low-throat in the swamp, and the rare 
snuggeries of the golden - crested wren 
and blue, yellow - backed warbler the 
former a tiny hermitage, built on the 
branch of an evergreen, composed of 
moss and lichen, with only a small hole 
left for entrance, and the interior lined 
with down ; the latter a dainty den, con 
structed, according to Samuels, of the 
"long gray Spanish moss (lichen?) so 
plentiful in the States of Maine, New 
Hampshire, and Vermont. The long hairs 
of the moss are woven and twined together 
in a large mass, on one side of which is 
the entrance to the nest a mere hole in 
the moss. The lining is nothing but 
the same material, only of finer quality." 
I have seen but two specimens of this 



nest one composed entirely of the long 
gray lichen which beards the patriar 
chal trees of our Northern forests and 
the other of a shorter species found on 
fences and rocks. 

The nest of the blue-winged yellow 
warbler is really worth a search. Few 
of our ornithologists have found it. 
According to Wilson, it is usually placed 
in a bunch or tussock of long grass, and 
is in the form of an inverted cone or 
funnel, the bottom thickly bedded with 
dry beech-leaves, the sides formed of the 
dry bark of strong weeds, lined with 
fine dry 7 grass. These materials are not 
placed in the usual manner, circularly, 
but shelving downward on all sides from 
the top, the mouth being wide, the bot 
tom very narrow and filled with leaves. 

Nor must I forget to mention that curi 
ous and anomalous three-, four-, and once 
I believe five-storied nest which occasion 
ally rewards the search of the persevering 
oologist a true piece of architectural 
art, each compartment perhaps with its 
single repudiated speckled egg a mon 
ument as it were to the intelligence and 
indefatigable pluck of the yellow warbler 
in overtopping the wit of the parasitic 
cow-bird, each story of the curious domi 
cile being erected over the insinuated 
portentous egg, and sufficiently separ 
ated therefrom to insure against its 
incubation, when the bird shall at last 
have exhausted her adversary s re 
sources and nestled in peace on the sum 
mit of her lofty pile, an apt, if facetious 
embodiment of "Patience on a monu 
ment." 

We have already alluded in superla 
tive terms to the nest of the blue-gray 
gnatcatcher, but even that artistic pro 
duction must yield to its easy rival and 
model of the humming-bird, in truth 
the prize among all our nests. Well 
does the ruby-throat deserve the golden 
medal which he wears upon his breast. 
From picture or cabinet specimens this 
beautiful mimetic structure saddled on 
its branch is familiar to most of my 
readers, few of whom, I am sure, will ever 
have disclosed it in its haunts, even 
though the eye may have rested on it 
a dozen times. The construction of this 
nest, barely an inch and a half in di 
ameter, is well described by Wilson : 
" The outward coat is formed of small 



BIRD CRADLES. 



57 



pieces of bluish-gray lichen, that vege 
tates on old trees and fences, thickly 
glued on with the saliva of the bird, giv 
ing firmness and consistency to the whole 
as well as keeping out moisture. Within 
this are thick matted layers of the fine 
wings of certain flying seeds, closely 
laid together ; and lastly the downy sub 
stance from the great mullein and from 
the stalks of fern lines the whole. The 
base of the nest is continued around the 
branch, to which it closely adheres ; and 
when viewed from below appears a mere 
mossy knot or accidental protuber 
ance." 

I have found but two in my lifetime, 
but am confident that a systematic search 
among the orchards in the glittering 
trail of the bird as he leaves the trum 
pet blossoms, would reveal one or two 
more. For there is a strange inconsist 
ency in the bird, which, in spite of its 
secretive art work, does not hesitate to 
reveal it by her tell-tale actions, hover 
ing about an intruder s head like a 
sphinx moth in the twilight, and, far from 
decoying one s attention away from her 
treasure, like other birds, deliberately 
settling herself thereon in preference to 
alighting elsewhere a conscious jewel 
that would seem to know its most ap 
propriate setting. 

The United States is favored with but 
a dozen species of the humming-bird, 
only one of which is found east of the 
plains. But what glints and gleams and 
scintillations and spangles among the 
flowery tropics ! where the hundreds of 
species of these sun-gems sport among 
their suggestive legion of companion 
orchids, each feathery atom with its 



especial whim of nest, here suspended 
among waving grasses, there hung upon 
a tendril or poised upon a leaf, or per 
haps glued flat upon its swinging, droop 
ing tip. But there is a choice even 
among diamonds, and it may be doubted 
whether even the famed tropics afford 
a more unique example of artistic refine 
ment than this of our native Western 
humming-bird, described by Dr. Brewer, 
a species only recently discovered by Mr. 
Allen, whose name it bears. 

"This nest is of a delicate cup-shape, 
and is made of the most slender branches 
of the hypnum mosses, each stem bound 
to the other and all firmly tied into one 
compact and perfect whole, by inter- 
weavings of silky webs of spiders. 
Within it is finely and softly lined with 
silky vegetable down. Even in the 
drawer of a cabinet, without its long 
natural framework, it is a perfect little 
gem in beauty. What, then, must it 
have been in its original position, with 
the graceful, waving leaf of the maiden 
hair fern for its appropriate and natural 
setting. It was fastened to the fern not 
two feet above the ground, and to this 
frail support it was secured by threads 
of spider-webs so slender as to be hardly 
visible." 

We know not what other nest-treas 
ures yet await us in the woods. There 
are many rare finds yet in store for the 
ornithologist in the long list of bird- 
species, well known by their skins, and 
even by their songs, but whose nidifica- 
tion is wrapped in mystery dozens of 
the warblers, sparrows, flycatchers, and 
vireos, and others yet awaiting their true 
historian. 




THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 

IV. TO HIS OWN EEPUTATION. 
By E. L. Godkin. 




HE first condition of 
all permanent associa 
tions of men, however 
primitive, is that each 
member should, in a 
greater or less degree, 
enjoy the confidence 
and good opinion of 
his fellows. No social organization, 
however rudimentary, could hold to 
gether for any great length of time 
unless the majority of those compos 
ing it were satisfied that they had in 
common certain ideas about the things 
which most concerned the safety and 
welfare of the community. This com 
mon stock of ideas need not be, and, 
as a general rule, has not been, what 
civilized men call morality. Civilized 
notions of right and wrong may have 
but little, if any, place in it. But it 
always imposes certain obligations in 
the matter of fidelity to custom, and of 
mutual help and succor in times of dan 
ger, necessity, and tribulation, the non- 
fulfilment of which calls forth some 
sort of social penalty. In all pursuits 
of tribal life, whether the particular 
undertaking be war, or hunting, or ma 
rauding, or merrymaking, or marrying, 
the savage is expected to behave in the 
manner prescribed by the customs and 
traditions of the community, so that his 
fellows may depend on him. No man 
in the tribe can keep his social place 
unless the other members are able to 
foresee how he will act under any given 
set of circumstances. This is the neces 
sary basis of all gregarious existence, 
even that of animals. Buffaloes or wild 
horses could not live in herds, or wolves 
hunt in packs, or wild geese fly in flocks, 
without some sort of general under 
standing or agreement as to gregarious 
conduct, violation of which would en 
tail death, or expulsion, or desertion. 

Darwin and Spencer think that out of 
this gregarious sympathy and co-opera 
tion grew civilized morality, as a neces 



sary result of the working of the social 
instinct. Whether this view, or the op 
posing one that morals are the creation 
of the Divine will, be the correct one, 
makes little difference for my present 
purpose. What is certain is that the 
need of mutual help, on which gregarious 
existence depends, created the very first 
form of individual property, the earliest 
of individual belongings, in the shape 
of social repute. No matter how far we 
go back in the earlier forms of society, 
even in those in which individual own 
ership of material things can hardly 
be said to exist, in which lands are held 
for the common tribal benefit, and even 
game is turned into the common tribal 
stock, we find that there is always one 
thing which is each man s peculium, 
which, though of no use to anyone else, 
is to him the most valuable thing on 
earth, namely, the estimation in which 
he is held by the other men of the tribe 
with regard to the principal social vir 
tue. 

I say "the principal social virtue," 
because every community, civilized or 
uncivilized, arranges social virtues on a 
scale of its own. At the top of the list 
it places the virtue which it considers 
most important to its own existence 
and prosperity. In barbarous or mili 
tary communities physical courage nat 
urally occupies this place. The highest 
honors are reserved for the successful 
fighting man, and the deepest scorn 
heaped on the man who shrinks from 
fighting. Courage was, in truth, the 
only foundation for respectability all 
over Europe in the Middle Ages, except 
in the commercial Republics, where it 
was supplemented, if not supplanted, by 
financial probity. To-day it has sunk 
into a very secondary position in all 
commercial communities, and has been 
almost lost sight of in others, as is 
shown by the disappearance of the duel. 
In the former, in order to be respected 
by his neighbors, a man must, as a gen- 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



59 



eral rule, be peaceable, or what is called 
" law-abiding ; : that is, not only slow 
to quarrel, but ready when he does 
quarrel to have his dispute settled by 
the courts. He must be truthful, that 
is, must be a man whose account of what 
he professes to know or have seen, and 
whose promises with regard to what he 
will do in future, may be relied upon. 
His domestic life must be pure, that is, 
he must be the husband of one wife and 
live with her in amity. If he has chil 
dren, he must make such provision for 
their wants as his means will permit, 
and give them a decent education. If 
he is engaged in a trade or profession, 
he must carry out his contracts faith 
fully, and answer all expectations for 
which he has given reasonable cause. 
If he is an employer, he must treat his 
workmen with consideration and pay 
them their wages duly. He must, too, 
be ready to bear cheerfully his share of 
such burdens, whether in money or la 
bor, as sudden or unforeseen occasions, 
whether of good or evil fortune, may 
impose on the community to which he 
belongs. He must, furthermore, be 
what is called " a good neighbor," that 
is, be ready to interchange with those 
who live near him not only the small 
courtesies called for by mere propin 
quity, but the larger offices of charity 
created by sickness or misfortune. 

It will thus be seen that as civilization 
has advanced the conditions of respec 
tability have multiplied. At the begin 
ning valor constituted a sufficient claim 
to social consideration. As the arts 
spread and the social organization grew 
more complex, and opinion became more 
powerful, a man had to increase the 
number of his titles to the esteem of his 
neighbors. But there never has been 
any period when these titles were not 
among his most valuable possessions, 
or in other words, when what people 
thought of him was not, almost as much 
as tangible property, or even more than 
tangible property, necessary to the com 
fort and happiness of his life. Shakes 
peare s 

" Who steals iny purse steals trasli ; tis some 
thing, nothing ; 

Twas mine, tis his, and has been slave to 
thousands ; 

But he that filches from me my good name 



Robs me of that which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed " 

is but the poetic expression of the idea 
of all societies, savage or civilized, that 
have ever existed, that a man s social 
standing was the particular kind of 
property most necessary to his enjoy 
ment of life, the loss of which would 
greatly impair, if not destroy, the satis 
faction derivable from all other kinds. 

Now, where does the value of this 
social consideration to the community 
lie, apart from the satisfaction which 
it gives to each man s own self-esteem ? 
In other words, why had he at one time 
to defend it himself with the sword, and 
why does the community now under 
take to defend it for him through the 
courts? The first reason is, that the 
love of reputation is the most powerful 
motive to good conduct perhaps the 
very strongest guarantee the community 
has for the good conduct of the citizen. 
The approval of a man s own conscience 
is, of course, also a powerful one, but 
that it acts with anything like the same 
force on the great bulk of any commun 
ity, we have not and cannot have any 
proof. What the power of conscience 
is in any individual case, nobody knows 
but the man himself. For the state of 
his moral nature, we have to trust en 
tirely to his own story, and experience 
justifies us in refusing to pay much at 
tention to this story until it is sup 
ported by a long course of visible good 
works. "By their fruits ye shall know 
them "is as sound a rule of jurispru 
dence as of moral philosophy. 

Practically, it is to the desire of social 
approval, and the corresponding fear of 
social reprobation, that every commun 
ity owes most of its protection from 
disorder and fraud, and most of its 
improvement on the moral side. No 
legislator depends on the courts and po 
lice for more than a very small part of 
the public peace and progress. Nearly 
the whole of that portion of every pop 
ulation to which the State looks for its 
general welfare and security that is, 
the intelligent and industrious portion 
are acted on strongly by the desire 
for the applause and good will of their 
neighbors, comparatively very little by 
the fear of the penal code. Outside 



GO 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



the class in which crimes of violence 
are commonest, the ignorant, the vi 
cious, and disorderly, the largest part 
of the penalty, even for violations of the 
law of the land, is the keen suffering 
which comes from the social disgrace 
which they entail on the offender and 
his family. For offences which do not 
entail such social disgrace, like those 
committed, as it is said, for conscience 
sake, such as succoring fugitive slaves 
in this country, or the refusal of Angli 
can clergymen in England to obey the 
civil courts in matters of ritual to-day 
in England, the jail has no terrors what 
ever. A very large part of our immense 
structure of commercial and financial 
credit is maintained by the same sanc 
tion. Of course, the fear of business 
ruin, which would follow failure to keep 
positive engagements, is the greatest 
support of financial fidelity and exact 
ness; but for protection against that 
great mass of trickery and sharpness 
which is possible without absolutely 
putting credit, in the strict technical 
sense of the term, in peril, society has 
to rely in the main on the general love 
of approbation. 

The purity of the sexual relation is 
largely preserved in the same way. The 
law in some countries punishes adul 
tery ; it punishes bigamy in all ; but it 
punishes unchastity in none. It is the 
testimony of all competent observers 
that the penalties directed against adul 
tery, where they exist and are enforced, 
have little or no deterrent effect, owing 
to the difficulty of proof, and the un 
willingness of the injured party to ap 
pear as a prosecutor. In practice, the 
only legal defence of the marriage rela 
tion is divorce, which is, in nine cases 
out of ten, something which the guilty 
party desires or, at all events, does not 
fear. The most effective deterrent from 
matrimonial infidelity, next after con 
sideration for the children, is fear of so 
cial reprobation. This is the one terror 
of the dissolute, or depraved, or light- 
minded, and thus does most for the 
maintenance of the family bond. 

Many, however, who acknowledge that 
legislation in defence of domestic purity 
is useless unless supported by a strong 
public sense of its value, forget that this 
public sense of its value must, in order 



to act as a sanction, pass out of the 
stage of simple appreciation, or admira 
tion, and take the form of judgment on 
conduct ; that is, it must take the form 
both of praise and blame of individuals. 
It must be converted into positive ap 
probation of the good husband or wife, 
and positive and expressed condemna 
tion of the unfaithful husband or wife. 
It is this sentiment in this form which, 
more than any marriage vows, or any 
form of legal penalty, keeps down mat 
rimonial irregularities, and compels 
large numbers of persons to support 
matrimonial infelicity with patience and 
resignation. It will thus be seen that 
the interest of the State in keeping- 
alive the love of social approbation is 
immense. The dangerous men, whether 
high or low in every community, are the 
men who do not feel it, or feel it only in 
a very slight degree. 

Next we may ask, what does social 
consideration or reputation do for the 
individual ? What rights, privileges, or 
immunities does it procure him, apart 
from the satisfaction it may give his 
vanity or self-esteem ? It gives him in 
the first place the comfort which comes 
to every man and to his family from the 
knowledge that his neighbors think well 
of him. The extent to which this en 
ters into a man s happiness, of course, 
varies in individuals, but next after as 
sured subsistence, it forms, to nine men 
out of ten, the chief reason for loving 
life, for clinging to one s own birthplace 
and country, and for reluctance to emi 
grate or fix one s abode among stran 
gers, whose opinion of one has still to 
be formed. A disgraced man is, to all 
intents and purposes, a man beginning 
a life of exile, and one of the sorrows 
of early struggling youth lies in the 
fact that people have not yet formed 
any estimate of the young man s char 
acter or capacity. Keputation, in fact, 
surrounds a man with an atmosphere of 
peace and hopefulness which he enjoys 
unconsciously, very much as he enjoys 
health in bright, clear weather ; and his 
family live in it and benefit by it hardly 
less than he does himself. 

In the next place, it gives weight to 
his opinions in all matters in which he 
shares his interest with other people. 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



61 



A man of good reputation is listened to 
with a deference which nothing but act 
ual power can procure for a man of poor 
reputation. His advice, too, is taken 
with a readiness which his ability or ex 
perience may not always warrant, be 
cause there is a strong disposition in hu 
man nature to infer wisdom from good 
ness a conclusion which is generally 
true in spite of the contempt often felt 
and expressed by "practical men" for 
the opinions of moralists, like clergymen 
and philosophers, and in spite of the 
frequent exhibitions of incapacity in 
ordinary affairs of life made by men 
of undoubted purity and simplicity of 
character. Influence, of course, follows 
power, whether it be the power of wealth 
or of office, without much reference to 
the character of the holder ; but it is 
enormously increased and strengthened 
by popular belief in a man s sincerity, 
kindliness, and honesty, and may, by 
the same help, survive the loss of both 
fortune and place. 

Though last, not least, reputation in 
trade and business takes the place to 
a large extent of capital. Every man 
whose character is held in high estima 
tion by his neighbors, can always com 
mand more credit than his visible means 
will warrant ; that is to say, he can bor 
row to an extent which a mere examina 
tion of his assets would not justify. His 
promises are treated as if they were 
cash, although the manner in which they 
can be converted into cash may be un 
known to those who trust him. In fact, 
if reputation were taken from under the 
fabric of modern commercial credit, the 
result would be an immense financial 
collapse. The larger part of it is built 
up on the assumption that the word of 
certain men is literally "as good as 
their bond," or, in other words, that they 
feel moral obligations more strongly 
than legal ones. Illustrations of this 
proposition can be found in nearly every 
pursuit and calling. A lawyer s profes 
sional value is greatly increased by pub 
lic confidence in his character ; so is a 
doctor s, or architect s, or engineer s. 
The value of this confidence from a 
purely commercial point of view can 
hardly be estimated until a man loses it ; 
then, and then only, can it be seen how 
much it had done for him. That particu 



lar men have been and are able to achieve 
worldly success in certain occupations 
without it, is doubtless true, and a mat 
ter of common observation ; but it will 
be found in nearly every such case that 
the absence of reputation has been com 
pensated for by some rare peculiarity of 
mind or temperament. To illustrate or 
enforce this theory by examples would 
be easy, but it would carry me into per 
sonalities which would hardly be war 
rantable in a paper of this sort. 

The value of reputation to the indi 
vidual, and the importance to the state 
of having him estimate it highly, being 
made clear, it remains to consider what 
does, can, or might the state do to pro 
tect him in the enjoyment of it. The 
reluctance of the state to do anything 
whatever, has been one of the most cu 
rious facts of modern history. It is only 
since the invention of printing that libel 
has become an important subject to the 
legislator or jurist. Spoken slander, in 
the days before pamphlets and news 
papers, was of trifling importance, and 
the punishment or repression of it was 
left, as attacks on property were at a 
still earlier period, to the victim himself 
by means of the duel or single combat, 
or some sort of corporal chastisement. 
The idea that this class of injury is most 
appropriately punished by personal vio 
lence has in fact survived down to our 
own day. There still lingers in the 
minds of the public, even in this country 
and in England, where the duel has died 
out, the notion that, though one ought 
to rely exclusively on the police and the 
courts for the protection of one s goods 
and chattels, yet there is certain peculiar 
fitness in protecting reputation or pri 
vacy against libel or intrusion by the 
cudgel or the horsewhip. That there is 
a certain pusillanimity in seeking redress 
for such wrongs in the courts only, has 
only very recently wholly disappeared 
from among us, and the public " thrash 
ing " of libellous editors has been wit 
nessed in New York within the present 
generation. 

There is, too, a very remarkable sur 
vival of this idea in the theory on which 
the common law first based its proced 
ure in the criminal prosecution of libel. 
That theory was that the state was only 
called in to concern itself with libel 



62 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



or slander as a criminal offence, because 
it was likely to lead to a breach of the 
peace. Out of this grew the apparently 
absurd, but really perfectly logical, dic 
tum, "the greater the truth the greater 
the libel," because the tinier it was, the 
more likely it was to lead to what South 
erners call "a difficulty." It was, in 
short, only when the person libelled 
seemed likely to seek redress vi et armis, 
that the law felt called upon to interfere ; 
but this was a distinct advance on the 
earlier view that the law need not con 
cern itself at all with such quarrels. It 
fell a long way short, however, of the 
more modern and more civilized view 
that it is as much the duty of the state 
to provide security for reputation as for 
property, and that it is, moreover, the 
interest of the state to do so, a man s 
regard for his reputation being one of 
the chief guarantees of social order and 
progress. 

This duty of punishing slander as a 
crime exists apart from, and is inde 
pendent of, the duty of furnishing the 
citizen with means of recovering from 
the libeller pecuniary compensation for 
the injury done, when the extent of 
such injury is ascertainable in terms 
of money. There are certain cases in 
which damage computable in money is 
presumed by the law to have resulted 
from the slander, as when a clergyman 
is accused of intemperance or profliga 
cy ; a lawyer of dishonesty ; a merchant 
of insolvency ; or a doctor of ignorance. 
In all such cases it is not necessary for 
the plaintiff to prove any loss resulting 
from the slander. The law says loss 
must have resulted from it, and the only 
question the jury have to pass upon, 
the utterance of the slander having been 
proved, is the question of amount. In 
other cases, where damage is not pre 
sumed, the plaintiff has to prove his 
damage, but the jury are allowed a 
large discretion in the matter of estimat 
ing it. They can take into account his 
mental suffering, or the frequent repeti 
tion, as an aggravation ; or they may, on 
the other hand, treat an apology, or the 
absence of malice, a good intention, as a 
mitigation of the damage. In fact, the 
whole matter of libel and slander is in 
the hands of the jury. The law, as laid 
down by the judge, has now very little 



control over it. The juries are to-day 
the true and untrammelled protectors 
of private reputation and, it may be said 
also, the true censors of the press. It is 
they who really decide what may and 
may not be written or said about a 
man s reputation. 

Cases of real slander, however, now 
very seldom come before them. Ac 
tions for words spoken are now al 
most unknown in the United States, 
although in the earlier history of the 
country they occupied a good deal of 
the time of the courts, even in the re 
moter districts. There are two prob 
able reasons for this. One is that lo 
cal life is now much less isolated than 
it used to be. Even the inhabitants of 
farms and country villages are in much 
closer communication with outer world 
and much more occupied with large ex 
ternal events than formerly. They are, 
therefore, much less concerned about 
each other, and pay less attention to 
each other s sayings and doings, and are 
less sensitive to unkind or malicious 
speeches. The other reason is that, 
when anyone wishes seriously to dam 
age reputation nowadays, he inevitably 
seeks to put it in a newspaper, as the 
channel through which he can obtain 
most publicity, and make his attack 
most seriously felt. Consequently, it is 
newspaper libel which furnishes nearly 
all the cases on which juries are required 
to pass. In one way this makes their 
task easier ; in another harder. In ac 
tions for oral slander there was always 
a good deal of trouble in getting at the 
words actually spoken, owing to the de 
fective memory or bad faith of wit 
nesses. In cases of printed libel there 
can be no dispute about the language 
constituting the libel. 

But the question of libel in news 
papers is attended with a difficulty of 
another sort, and a much more serious 
one. Newspapers are not only collec 
tors of news in the ordinary sense of 
the term, they are also the channels 
through which the citizen gets nearly 
all his knowledge of the working of his 
government, and of the character, aims, 
and deeds of the men who carry it on, 
or seek to influence it. This fact gen 
erally increases the responsibility of 
juries, by the importance it gives to the 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



63 



question of " privilege." As an English 
writer on jurisprudence * has well said : 
" A notoriously bad man has not a legal 
right to be respectfully described in 
speech or writing as a good man has. 
A man doing an important public act, 
or addressing a literary treatise to his 
fellow-countrymen, has no right entitling 
him to shut the mouths even of harsh 
and severe critics, even though their 
general intention be unkindly, but not 
accompanied by that vehement desire, 
or distinct consciousness of doing evil, 
which alone the law denounces. For 
general public reasons it may be, that 
no man has a right entitling him to 
close the mouths even of the severest 
critics of his conduct in the course of 
his administration of public justice ; in 
that of the deliberations of the Legisla 
tive Assembly, or in certain other more 
private circumstances, as in the course 
of tendering confidential advice with re 
spect to trustworthiness for important 
employments." 

"When we add to these considerations 
another and most important one the 
extent to which the government, as well 
as those large quasi-public enterprises, 
the railroads, is carried on or regulated 
by discussion, mainly through the news 
papers, it is easy to see how difficult is 
the task imposed on jurors in our day 
of defining the exact limits of individual 
right in the matter of security for rep 
utation. And it is also, for the same 
reason, easy to understand the confu 
sion and uncertainty which exist in the 
public mind as to what is libellous and 
what is not. No two juries are likely 
to take the same view of any case of 
libel. This is notoriously true, when 
the libel has any relation to politics, or 
when the decision in it is likely to have 
any political influence or effect. It is 
then of the most importance, to either 
plaintiff or defendant, to have the jury 
composed, wholly or in the main, of 
persons of his own way of thinking on 
public questions. Nothing is more 
striking in the way in which men judge 
newspaper criticism, than the difference 
it makes, whose ox is gored. "Whether 
condemnation is too severe, or whether 
the limits between public and private 

* Amos s Systematic View of the Science of Jiirispru- 
dence, p. 293. 



character have been overstepped in any 
particular comment on a man in pub 
lic life, is apt to be decided bv most 
men under the influence of party pre 
dilection. A low view of one s oppo 
nents, personally as well as politically, 
seems an almost inevitable result of 
active participation in, or strong inter 
est in, party politics. It grows up im 
perceptibly, and often becomes incap 
able of eradication, and is a strong 
stimulus, and sometimes a powerful 
protection, for newspaper attacks on 
reputation. 

But perhaps the most powerful agent 
in instigating such attacks, and securing 
for them a certain indulgence or impun 
ity, is the increasing importance of elec 
tions in those States which have adopted 
universal suffrage. Not only is the mass 
to be moved much increased and in 
creasing in bulk at parliamentary or 
presidential elections ; but the interests 
dependent on the result of the election 
are increasing in the same ratio. The 
effect of this is to give to electioneer 
ing, as has been often remarked, the un- 
scrupulousness of actual warfare, and to 
create among partisans on both sides a 
strong disposition to connive at, or at 
all events to condone, any excesses how 
ever great which seem likely to influence 
the issue, for this result is now tremen 
dous. A general election in France, 
England, or the United States to-day, 
may transfer to fresh hands the control 
of some hundreds of thousands of office 
holders, the command of great fleets and 
armies, and the spending of revenues 
which would, even a century ago, have 
seemed fabulous in amount. The chief 
engine in effecting this transfer is the 
press, for even orators now reach the 
public through the press, and of course, 
the pressure to resort to any assertion 
or insinuation which can by any chance 
influence even a hundred votes, is very 
strong, in many cases overwhelming. 
The defences which in ordinary times 
surround private character, or separate 
public from private life, are apt in the 
midst of a political canvass to be treated 
as of no more account, by the directors 
or managers on either side, than the pal 
ing round a private garden by the com 
mander of a battery going in to action in 
a real welfare. 



64 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



The countenance given to forgery of 
documents, or if this be too strong a 
phrase the easy acceptance accorded 
to suspicious documents for the pur 
pose of blackening the character of po 
litical opponents, within recent years, 
both in England and this country, is 
a striking illustration of the fierceness 
of political contests, and of the readi 
ness with which any means of influenc 
ing public opinion may be resorted 
to at critical periods. Legal preven 
tion of this is difficult to furnish as 
long as, under our jury system, the 
jurymen have to be partisans who have 
themselves been taking part in the fray. 
At present there is no punishment for 
forgery which does not aim at the trans 
fer of property, or at the escape from 
pecuniary liability. But forgery which 
has for its direct or indirect object the 
deception of voters at an election touch 
ing the character and aims of a candi 
date, is fully as great an offence against 
the community at large as fraud com 
mitted for the purpose of pecuniary gain. 
It can only be repressed, however, by 
making those who use a forgery with 
out reasonable exertions to ascertain its 
real character, share to some extent in 
the responsibility of the actual concoc- 
tors of it. This latter is apt, in most 
cases, to be a paltry person, who has lit 
tle or nothing to lose in money or repu 
tation in case of discovery, and yet it is 
he only who now has, in case of discov 
ery, any legal penalty to fear. Every 
body who turns his labor to account in 
the press or in the platform ought to be 
exposed also to criminal pursuit. There 
is nothing more important to the state 
than that the voter should have accurate 
knowledge as to the character and his 
tory of the men whom he puts into im 
portant official places ; and attempts of 
any kind to prevent his getting it, or to 
furnish it to him in a spurious condition, 
are quite as fit objects of punishment as 
attempts to prevent his voting accord 
ing to his conscience through corruption 
or intimidation. 

Finally, there ought to be provision 
made for the more speedy trial of libel 
cases, because slander is the one form 
of personal injury the consequences of 
which gain in severity by mere lapse of 
time. After a robbery or a physical as 



sault, the victim, if the injury be not 
fatal or he is not stripped of everything 
he possesses, begins to recover more or 
less rapidly. But a wound to the repu 
tation not only does not heal, but grows 
deeper every day which goes by before 
the appearance of some formal and pub 
lic refutation of the slander. Each day 
adds to the number of those who hear it 
and believe it, and for the same reason, 
to the number of those whom the refu 
tation of it cannot reach. It is, there 
fore, of the last importance to the in 
jured person that the means of redress 
should be easily attainable in point of 
time ; but it is also of importance to 
newspapers that these means of redress 
should not be so easily attainable pe 
cuniarily that they should offer tempta 
tions to blackmailers, or to excitable or 
morbid persons, to begin proceedings 
which the courts are sure to treat as 
frivolous. 

One of the facts of human nature 
which all legislators dealing with the 
question of libel have to take into con 
sideration, is its greater readiness to re 
ceive and circulate stories detrimental 
than stories creditable to reputation. 
The saying that "a lie makes its way 
across lots, while truth has to go round 
by the dirt road," is more applicable 
to calumnious attacks on character than 
to any other form of falsehood. A 
piece of news which throws some kind 
of disrepute on a person, particularly if 
he is well known, or occupies a place of 
any prominence, although it may not 
be generally believed, is diffused much 
more rapidly than one which would 
raise him in popular esteem. Kochefou- 
cauld s well-known saying that, "we 
take a secret pleasure in the misfortunes 
of our best friends," has been explained, 
by those who acknowledge its truth, by 
the general desire for superiority, no mat 
ter how acquired, with which we are all 
consciously or unconsciously animated. 
The love of scandal has possibly the 
same source. It for the moment raises 
the narrator above his victim, or at all 
events pulls the victim down to his level, 
by revealing some great or small imper 
fection. The old scandalum magnatum, 
or libel on peers and other great person 
ages, of the English law, although an 
absurdity in modern democratic eyes, 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



65 



did recognize the fact that the highly 
placed furnish calumny with a shining 
mark, and that the dragging down of 
the mighty has been not unpleasing 
sport to the natural man in all ages. 
Consequently, a disposition to attack 
reputation is the form of lawlessness 
which survives longest in all civilized 
communities, and is most difficult to 
deal with by legislation. 

Closely allied to it, and in fact grow 
ing out of it, is the disposition to in 
trude on privacy. Privacy is a distinctly 
modern product, one of the luxuries of 
civilization, which is not only unsought 
for but unknown in primitive or barba 
rous societies. The savage cannot have 
privacy, and does not desire or dream of 
it. To dwellers in tents and wigwams 
it must always have been unknown. 
The earliest houses of our Anglo-Saxon 
ancestors in England, even among the 
Thanes, consisted of only one large room 
in which both master and mistress, and 
retainers, cooked, ate, and slept. The 
first sign of material progress was the 
addition of sleeping-rooms, and after 
ward of " withdrawing - rooms " into 
which it was possible for the heads of 
the household to escape from the noise 
and publicity of the outer hall. One of 
the greatest attractions of the dwellings 
of the rich is the provision they make 
for the segregation of the occupants. 
All of the improvements, too, of recent 
years in the dwellings of the poor, have 
been in the direction, not simply of 
more space, but of more separate rooms. 
The old proverb which says that "Pov 
erty makes us acquainted with strange 
bed-fellows," is but the expression of 
the universal desire of civilized man to 
have within reach a place in which he 
can, when the fancy seizes him, be alone, 
and out of the reach of society. In no way 
does poverty make itself more painfully 
felt by people of refinement or cultiva 
tion, than in the loss of seclusion and 
the social promiscuousness which it en 
tails. To have a house of one s own is 
the ambition of nearly all civilized men 
and women, and the reason which most 
makes them enjoy it is the opportunity 
it affords of deciding for themselves how 
much or how little publicity should sur 
round their daily lives. 

The famous dictum of Coke, "A 



man s house is his castle, et domus sua 
cuique tutissimum refugium," "his cas 
tle and fortress as well for his defence 
against injury and violence as for his 
repose," is but the expression in terms 
of politics of the value attached by the 
race to the power of drawing, each 
man for himself, the line between his 
life as an individual and his life as a 
citizen, or in other words, the power 
of deciding how much or how little the 
community shall see of him, or know 
of him, beyond what is necessary for 
the proper discharge of all his duties to 
his neighbors and to the state. And 
this recognition by law and custom of a 
man s house as his tutissimum refugium, 
his place of repose, is but the outward 
and visible sign of the law s respect for 
his personality as an individual, for that 
kingdom of the mind, that inner world 
of personal thought and feeling in which 
every man passes some time, and in 
which every man who is worth much to 
himself or others, passes a great deal of 
time. The right to decide how much 
knowledge of this personal thought and 
feeling, and how much knowledge, there 
fore, of his tastes, and habits, of his own 
private doings and affairs, and those of 
his family living under his roof, the pub 
lic at large shall have, is as much one of 
his natural rights as his right to decide 
how he shall eat and drink, what he 
shall wear, and in what manner he shall 
pass his leisure hours. 

Of course, the importance attached to 
this privacy varies in individuals. In 
trusion on it afflicts or annoys different 
persons in different degrees. It annoys 
women more than men, and some men 
very much more than others. To some 
persons it causes exquisite pain to have 
their private life laid bare to the world, 
others rather like it ; but it may be laid 
down as a general rule that the former 
are the element in society which most 
contributes to its moral and intellectual 
growth, and that which the state is 
most interested in cherishing and pro 
tecting. Personal dignit} r is the fine 
flower of civilization, and the more of it 
there is in a community, the better off 
the community is. It is the only form 
of self-respect which does not "take on 
airs," and which is constantly compelled 
to justify itself by suitable living. But 



66 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



without privacy its cultivation or pre 
servation is hardly possible. It is not 
one of the incidents of life in a camp, or 
a barrack, or in a man-of-war, or in a 
tenement-house, or a caravan. It can 
never become a social force without put 
ting within the reach of those who seek 
it or care for it, the means of defend 
ing it. 

The chief enemy of privacy in modern 
life is that interest in other people and 
their affairs known as curiosity, which in 
the days before newspapers created per 
sonal gossip. As soon in the progress 
of civilization as men left the tent, or 
wigwam, or tribal dwelling, and retreated 
into private houses, a desire on the part 
of their neighbors to know what was go 
ing on in the private houses sprang up 
rapidly, and has nourished ever since 
the world over. There is a story of the 
traveller in the hotel in the Western 
mining town, who pinned a shirt across 
his open window to screen himself from 
the loafers on the piazza while perform 
ing his toilet ; after a few minutes he saw 
it drawn aside roughly by a hand from 
without, and on asking what it meant, a 
voice answered, " We want to know what 
there is so darned private going on in 
there ? " The loafers resented his at 
tempts at seclusion in their own rude 
way, but they did it under the influence 
of a feeling which runs through all so 
cial life in our world. Curiosity, in its 
larger and nobler aspect, lies at the root 
of Western, as distinguished from Ori 
ental, civilization. In its smaller, pet 
tier, and more ignoble shape, it became 
the passion of the Paul Pry and the 
scandal-monger. Everybody who feels 
this latter, or social curiosity, as we may 
call it, is more or less ashamed of it. 
Nobody quite likes to confess that he is 
eager to know all he can about his 
neighbor s private life, and yet the pri 
vate lives of our neighbors form the 
staple topic of conversation in most cir 
cles in the absence of strong intellectual, 
political, or commercial interests. This 
eagerness may be defended on the 
ground that the love of gossip is after 
all human, and that everything that is 
human concerns us deeply. The most 
absorbing topic for the bulk of mankind 
must always be other men s doings and 
sayings, and it can hardly be denied 



that there is some substance in this 
apology. But as long as gossip was 
oral, it spread, as regarded any one in 
dividual, over a very small area, and was 
confined to the immediate circle of his 
acquaintances. It did not reach, or but 
rarely reached, those who knew nothing 
of him. It did not make his name, or 
his walk, or his conversation familiar to 
strangers. And what is more to the 
purpose, it spared him the pain or 
mortification of knowing that he was 
gossiped about. A man seldom heard 
of oral gossip about him which simply 
made him ridiculous, or trespassed on 
his lawful privacy, but made no positive 
attack on his reputation. His peace and 
comfort were, therefore, but slightly af 
fected by it. 

In all this the advent of the news 
papers, or rather of a particular class of 
newspapers, has made a great change. 
It has converted curiosity into what 
economists call an effectual demand, 
and gossip into a marketable commod 
ity. The old Paul Pry whom our fathers 
despised and caricatured, and who was 
roundly kicked and cuffed on the stage 
for his indiscretions, has become a great 
wholesale dealer in an article of mer 
chandise for which he finds a ready 
sale, and by which he frequently makes 
a fortune. In other words, gossip about 
private individuals is now printed, and 
makes its victim, with all his imperfec 
tions on his head, known hundreds or 
thousands of miles away from his place 
of abode ; and, what is worst of all, brings 
to his knowledge exactly what is said 
about him, with all its details. It thus 
inflicts what is, to many men, the great 
pain of believing that everybody he 
meets in the street is perfectly familiar 
with some folly, or misfortune, or indis 
cretion, or weakness, which he had pre 
viously supposed had never got beyond 
his domestic circle. 

It is no defence for this state of things 
to say that the passion for notoriety of 
any kind has been fostered to such an 
extent by this wide diffusion of printed 
gossip, that there is a large number of 
people who do not dislike it, but on the 
contrary put themselves in the way of 
having their private life explored by the 
press. They are a small minority at 
best, and their taste must be recognized 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



67 



as a depraved one, which even if the 
legislator does not discourage, he is not 
bound to take notice of at all, or to make 
its gratification easy. But it is not 
easy to say in what way a legislator 
could protect privacy, or prevent any 
intrusions into it, which do not plainly 
tend to bring a person into contempt or 
ridicule, or in other words, which do 
not amount to what the law defines as 
libel. Press laws, more than any others, 
have to be supported not simply by the 
opinions but by the manners of the 
community. One of the effects on man 
ners of a free and unbridled press, and 
of a great multiplicity of newspapers, is 
undoubtedly to lessen public sensitive 
ness to spoken or printed ridicule, or 
abuse, or depreciation, and consequently 
to lessen popular sympathy with the 
victim of it. In France a man can le 
gally prevent or punish the mere men 
tion of his name in any disagreeable 
connection, if he be not in political, 
literary, or artistic life. He can at once 
stop newspaper gossip about him, even 
though it be harmless gossip ; that is, 
he can forbid the publication of infor 
mation of any sort about himself or his 
affairs. But in France the law on this 
subject is supported by a sensitive 
ness to ridicule or insult which has 
probably never existed in any Anglo- 
Saxon country, and if it ever existed 
here in any degree, has been destroyed 
by the number and enterprise of the 
newspapers and the extremely demo 
cratic condition of American society. 
To provide legal protection for those 
who still retain it would, therefore, in 
the absence of popular sympathy, be very 
difficult. Juries, as I have said, are the 
real censors of the press, and juries are 
apt to be made up of men who, though 
they will punish actual damage to a 
man s reputation, are not disposed to 
make much account of mere wounds to 
his feelings or his taste. The influence 
on manners, too, of the eagerness of no 
toriety is inevitably great in a society in 
which there are no distinctions of rank 
and no recognized social grades. To be 



widely known for some reason or other, 
or for any reason, is the one distinction 
which seems within every man s reach, 
and the desire for it is sufficiently wide 
ly diffused not only to diminish popular 
sympathy with people who love the 
shade of private life, but to some extent 
to make this particular state of mind 
somewhat incomprehensible. 

In truth, there is only one remedy for 
the violations of the right to privacy 
within the reach of the American pub 
lic, and that is but an imperfect one. 
It is to be found in attaching social dis 
credit to invasions of it on the part of 
conductors of the press. At present this 
check can hardly be said to exist. It is 
to a large extent nullified by the fact 
that the offence is often pecuniarily* 
profitable. It is frowned on severely 
by society at the outset, before it has 
fairly begun to pay, but as soon as the 
offender is able to show that it is bring 
ing him in a large revenue, it is rapidly 
condoned or overlooked, and he takes 
rank among the successful business men 
of the community, and finds his claim 
to whatever honors wealth brings with 
it ; if not universally acknowledged, ac 
knowledged sufficiently to more than 
compensate him for any previous dis 
comfort. This amounts to saying that 
the responsibility for the excesses of the 
press in this direction, must fall in the 
last resort upon the general use of the 
money as the sign of success in life, and 
the possession of it as, to some degree, 
a justification of the means employed in 
acquiring it. As long as the money- 
getting talent holds the field against all 
other competing talents, in the race for 
distinction of every kind, we shall prob 
ably not see any great change in the 
attitude of the press on this subject. 
This supremacy of the pecuniary reward 
over all other rewards, as an incentive 
to exertion, can hardly be permanent, 
but it is one of the phenomena of the 
present day, which cannot be overlooked 
in any discussion of the defences thrown 
by law or opinion around the reputation 
or privacy of individuals. 




UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 

By Octave Thanet. 



SIR CHRISTOPHER PULLEN, the 
new lord of Audely, and the Lady 
Agatha, his wife, had nearly ridden 
down Goody Bassely Crawme, as they 
crossed the common on a gallop. 

Lady Agatha reined in her palfrey, 
frowning and silent ; but Sir Kit (so 
they called him in the village) apolo 
gized, using more courtesy than was 
common in the days of King Edward 
VI. between his degree and hers. 

" Tis naught," muttered a deep, stern 
voice, while the old crone pursued her 
way, omitting the decent reverence to a 
superior. 

" Saw ye the uncivil body ? " ex 
claimed Lady Agatha, with a curl of her 
handsome lip. 

"Ah, well, sweetheart," the pacific Sir 
Kit answered, " tis an aged soul and 
faithful, and the world hath gone ill 
with her masters." 

The knight s wife looked at him 
fondly. He was no hero ; she knew that 
better than anyone ; but Sir Kit had a 
lovable side to his character which she 
appreciated keenly, although she could 
jest at it as she did this moment. 

"I have no such evil-wilier in the 
world as that old age," said she, " but I 
perceive tis easy for you to forgive 
her." 

Sir Kit was smiling. " Nay, wife," he 
answered ; " but I consider her hard 
conditions. And, in good sooth, I be 
so well content, nowadays, that I can 
find it in my heart to be noisome, wit 
tingly, to no man." 



The face which was turned on Lady 
Agatha, while he spoke, beamed with a 
deep and strong emotion. It was a face 
to please a woman s eye refined in 
mould and coloring, with a humorous 
shrewdness invigorating the sweetness 
of the mouth and twinkling in the gen 
tle, large, blue eyes. His mouster-dev- 
iler-colored silk hose and velvet doublet 
revealed a graceful, well-knit frame, and 
he managed his spirited beast with the 
ease of long practice. 

Nevertheless Sir Kit looked the 
scholar rather than the soldier, and 
scholar rather than soldier or man of 
action he was, in spite of some bold 
service in the wars ; a gentle-natured 
observer, a not unkindly critic of the 
bitter passions and frantic follies of his 
time, incapable of fanaticisms or arro 
gant enthusiasms ; it may be, equally in 
capable of a noble resistance ; yet, all in 
all, a good man, of pure life, and a large 
humanity. Sir Kit was not noble by 
birth. He was the second son of a great 
London goldsmith, Sir Gyles Pullen, 
alderman and knight. Kit as a lad was 
destined for the cloister, the natural 
place, people thought, for a delicate 
boy with a turn for letters. 

At that time, you may be sure, there 
was no talk of Sir Gyles, knight, and 
there was a healthy, high-spirited elder 
brother in the world, to the bargain. 
But Master Pullen was knighted, and 
the elder brother died unmarried ; 
therefore it came to pass that the name 
of Christopher Pullen appears among 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



69 



those young monks who were permitted 
(before the general dissolution of the 
monasteries) to resume their secular 
habits and return to the world. 

Certain scandalous chroniclers of the 
time will have it that the real motive for 
the young monk s acceptance of the 
king s grace was neither his sense of 
filial duty nor a change in religion. They 
tell that he had fallen in love with his 
fair penitent, Lady Agatha Neville. It 
was a derogation on the part of an earl s 
daughter to marry a commoner of mean 
birth, apart from the stain on such 
"monkish marriages" in good Catho 
lics notions ; but the earl was poor and 
Sir Gyles was rich, and young Kit dis 
tinguished himself in the Pilgrimage of 
Grace, at the head of a troop raised and 
paid by his father. In consequence not 
only was he knighted by the king, but 
he received a handsome estate from the 
delighted Sir Gyles, and " at the end," 
says one old gossip of the day, " the 
Lady Agatha had her will." 

The marriage was an exceptionally 
happy one, although there had been one 
sore disappointment no children were 
born to the house of Pullen. Hence a 
cruel whisper among their tenants of 
the old faith : Behold a righteous pun 
ishment for the married monk ! 

No tongue wagged more glibly or scat 
tered more venom than old Bassely s ; 
and if a great lady may stoop to hate a 
poor body, the Lady Agatha hated Goody 
Crawme. 

I daresay now she threw a smoulder 
ing backward thought on the enemy too 
low to strike. Such stir of the mind 
would be of a cast to heighten the brill 
iancy of a beauty which surviving por 
traits image stately and calm. 

Doubtless it painted her fair, fresh- 
colored face with a brighter cheek, 
lighted a liquid sparkle in her deep, 
dark eyes, and curved the swan-like neck 
more majestically. Perhaps there was 
a little hardness about the features (they 
were large, of the type that we call Ro 
man), but no man on whom Lady Agatha 
smiled ever thought her face hard. 

She smiled, now, at the admiration in 
her husband s eyes. 

" I would I could content Sir Gyles so 
easily as I can thee," she said. 

" Nay, thou dost ; tis I miscontents 
VOL. VIII. 6 



my father," replied Sir Kit, quickly, "he 
deemeth that I bear me too gentle to 
ward evil-doers. He hath it in hand to 
settle himself at the Abbey, but he fear- 
eth to leave me lord of the manor. Yet, 
methinks, he will go. Then shall we be 
alonely, dear heart." 

Their eyes met, and Lady Agatha 
forgot Goody Crawme. 

The old woman s figure, by this time, 
was only a black silhouette in the dis 
tance, backed by the green fields and 
the rich August sky. 

She was an erect and sturdy old 
woman, whose gray hair was thick above 
her wrinkled forehead, and who carried 
a stick for no need of her limbs, but, I 
fear, solely to menace divers "wacca- 
bones and lotherers," who were used to 
assail her for the sound and plausible 
reason that they were zealous Protest 
ants, and she had been wife to the Cath 
olic lord s cook. 

The cook and all his children, three 
stout boys, had followed the old lord, 
Marmadace Audely, into the insurrection 
of 1547. Master Crawme was so happy 
as to be killed in battle ; and so were* 
Lord Audely and his elder son ; but the 
younger Audely and Dame Crawme s 
boys perished miserably in the legal car 
nage that followed. 

Of the children of Audely there re 
mained only a little blind lass, too young 
to realize her desolation. Old Bassely 
gave her master s darling a home. They 
lived, on sufferance, in a poor hut of 
mud and sticks, on the edge of the vil 
lage. Goody Crawme kept a cow, and 
geese, and chickens ; and having a good 
skill in her husband s craft she contrived 
to earn a humble livelihood as helper at 
feasts and weddings among the richer 
sort. Privately she was considered a 
good deal by the old tenants. But there 
were many stings. It was a fall in 
the world. Goody Crawme had been 
Dame Crawme, a personage in the house 
hold, who had her own comfortable tim 
ber and plaster house, and rode her own 
palfrey. Now she lived in a hovel and 
must go afoot. 

But far, far more pain to the loyal old 
soul was it to watch the bright creature 
that she loved growing up in poverty. 
And there was a fear, beside, which stung 
her anew at every sight of the Lady 



70 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



Agatha. To-day she cursed the married 
monk and his wife. " Never to thee will 
I give my lamb," shrieked she. " Tis 
not for long to bide quiet. God s hand 
is on the king ; the Lady Mary s day 
will come, ye murdering thieves ! " 

She choked down the climbing passion 
in her throat, there was no time for 
grief or fury, she had business in hand, 
and here was the village. 

The Signe of the Egle (thus is the inn 
of Audely written in the county history) 
stood cornerwise on the curving village 
street, pushing its gabled shoulders out 
of a ragged line of thatched roofs. Al 
ready lights and fires made a ruddy 
glow behind round arched windows ; 
and the shadows were beginning to 
huddle under the copse sides and in the 
corners of the court. 

If by no other token, you might be 
aware of approaching nightfall by the 
ever-deepening clamor of voices in the 
porch. 

Goody Crawme grunted in huge scorn, 
recognizing a familiar note. " Tom Ha- 
warth prating o Joan Boacher s burn 
ing, still ! Oh, ye weary swell-pate ! 
And me which seen a man boiled alive 
ne er did brag twice on t. By God s 
wounds, did ye get your desarvings, for 
the pestilent heretic knave ye be, we 
could see a burning i our own market- 
set, nor need to gape furder ! " 

Grinning malignantly at her vision of 
the good Protestant s fate, she went into 
the inn. She had seen the person whom 
she was seeking. He stood in the cen 
tre of the tap-room listening to the talk 
with a satirical smile. He was a middle- 
aged man, of a fine shape, a swarthy 
countenance, and a quick, bright black 
eye. His dress was grave but hand 
some ; a short gown of " chanabulle " or 
changeable silk, the main hue being a 
shade of cinnamon, " purfled " (that is, 
edged) with minever fur, and lined with 
blue taffety, with blue silk hose and a 
jewelled velvet cap. On the strength of 
his costume he might have passed for a 
man of rank ; he was really a London 
physician. Perceiving Dame Crawme 
he disengaged himself from the crowd. 
The two left the house and drew apart 
a little, out of ear-shot. She had been 
fumbling all the while in her leathern 
bag. 



Finally she pulled out some pieces of 
silver, saying : " Here be the sum, four 
and twenty testons.* Pleaseth you, 
worshipful sir, come quickly to my 
lady!" 

The man raised his eyebrows as with 
a long forefinger he pushed the coins 
about on her palm. " Nay, Goody," said 
he, "here are bare sixteen shillings; I 
said twenty-four." 

" The shilling equals ninepence," cried 
the old woman, all the swift suspicion 
of the poor in arms ; " a murrain on the 
base money ! But here be thirty-two 
shilling. I had the last, yestreen, of the 
king s purveyors. They drave a hard 
bargain wi me, too. They telled me the 
king hath called down the shilling to 
ninepence, and ye call it sixpence." 

" Even so, dame," said the doctor, 
dryly, "by the king s own proclamation, 
which I did hear read this day at the 
cross in the market-set." 

The old woman hardly seemed to hear 
him ; she was too busy with her own 
anxiety. " Master Langdon," said she, 
" when ben ye here last ? " 

" It may be six months agone." 

"Yea, sir. And ye did say ye cold 
cure my lady s eyes. I ha worked and 
starved to gather the fee since that day. 
How be I to win eight shilling mo ? 
And ye go to-morrow ! How long or ye 
come again ? " 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders ; 
he had no idea ; belike never. 

The shillings jangled in the old wom 
an s hand. " God s curse on them that 
strip the poor ! " cried Goody Crawme. 

Even as she spoke she was pushed 
aside by a vehement new-comer in livery, 
who bade the doctor follow him ; Sir 
Gyles willed his attendance. 

" But my lady " pleaded old Bassely. 

" For God s pity ye did promise ! " 

" Tush," answered Dr. Langdon, but 
not unkindly. " I like not to fish 
and catch a frog ! Fet me twenty shil 
lings to-morrow, and we will see. Have 
with you, good fellow ! " 

Sir Gyles s retainer hurried the phy 
sician away. 

Was he a physician, or was he a quack ? 
There were insensible gradations be 
tween the legitimate school and the pre 
tenders, those days ; but Dr. Langdon s 

* A teston equalled a shilling. 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



71 



cures were considered wonderful ; at 
any rate, poor Bassely believed in him. 
Her heart swelled with an intolerable 
pain. She could see behind the round 
oak tops the ancient Norman towers of 
Audely. There lay her nursling s right 
ful heritage, and the king had wrenched 
it from her to bestow on a " clerking 
knight," a " forestaller " and " regrator," 
a goldsmith who lent out money at usury. 

There was a savor of hardness of 
heart and unchristian-like dealing about 
all interest to Bassely s generation. 
Dame Crawme was sure that Sir Gyles 
was the wickedest and cruellest man 
in England, which he was not by any 
means. 

And he and the minion, his son, could 
order the great doctor about like a serv 
ing-man ; while the rightful lady of 
Audely must lose her chance to know 
the sun for the lack of a few shillings ! 

Four shillings four shillings before 
to-morrow morning why, they were as 
much beyond her reach as four hundred ! 

A merciless thought kept goading her. 
"No, no," she moaned, answering it, 
" better blind than bred by her father s 
foes ! " 

She could see the child s little face, 
such a patient, merry, loving face it was. 
Bassely had prepared a humble feast, 
which was luxury in their bare living, to 
do honor to the doctor. Mildred did 
not know the object of the doctor s com 
ing ; but, child-like, she was delighted 
with the supper ; and Bassely was listen 
ing to her laughter now. 

She wrung her hands and groaned 
aloud. Just at this moment it was the 
lamentable fortune of Bassely Crawme 
to perceive something glittering at her 
feet. 

She had gone some considerable way 
on her road and was traversing a field of 
the manor. 

A foot-path and stile belonging to 
this field had been free to all, in Lord 
Audely s time ; it was one of the village 
grievances that Sir Gyles should fusstty 
interdict such passing. For that very 
reason the spiteful old woman always 
went by the path. 

She regarded the object before her. 
It was a scarlet hood of fine Flemish 
cloth, embroidered in seed pearls and 
gold. Bassely knew it well. Once the 



property of Lady Audely, it had passed 
with the rest of the wardrobes and 
household goods to Sir Gyles, and Sir 
Gyles, a widower of rigid life, had given 
it to his daughter-in-law. Many a time 
had she seen the scarlet folds fluttering 
against Lady Agatha s black hair. She 
glowered at the radiant spot of finery. 
All at once her eyes flashed. " Why 
not ? " she was thinking, exultantly, " the 
man will make more o the gaud than 
four shillings ! " She knew something 
of Dr. Langdon s morals, which were 
not cut on Sir Gyles s pattern ; and she 
smiled grimly. " The Lady Agatha 
hath spoiled it for an honest woman s 
wearing, I trow," was her cruel word. 
" And he will go away and say naught. 
By Saint Stephen, tis safe enow ! " 

No scruple of honesty assailed her 
conscience ; why should it ? She did 
but take back her mistress s own. 

Casting one swift glance about her, 
she snatched up the hood and rolled it 
under her long cloak. 

" One good thing done this day," 
quoth she, piously crossing herself ; 
"now, blessed St. Stephen, help me 
bear this matter to the end." 

To St. Stephen she prayed because he 
was the Audelys patron saint to whom 
they had erected a fair abbey. This, 
also, had fallen into Sir Gyles s hands, 
being converted by him into a dwelling- 
house. He had spent great sums 
thereon, and it was rumored that Sir 
Gyles proposed to retire to the abbey, 
leaving Audely to the young people. 

St. Stephen, anyone can see, had 
plenty of reason to assert himself. 

" Now, worthy Master Stephen, be my 
good lord," prayed Dame Crawme. " 111 
e en fare me home to my mess o sodden 
chickens and bacon and a pottel o ale." 

Meanwhile Sir Kit and his wife had 
ridden to their journey s object. They 
had discoursed of many things their 
own plans, the " troublesome unquiet- 
ness " of the realm somewhat, a little 
sadly of their childless state, a good 
deal of some thefts in the village that 
had sorely vexed Sir Gyles, and then, 
by a natural transition, of the dead lord 
of the manor and his daughter. There 
was a long-standing desire of Lady 
Agatha concerning this child, to which 
she always returned, as she did now. 



72 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



" Dear heart," said her husband, gent 
ly, " were there no other impediment, 
Sir Gyles " 

" He hath consented this very morn," 
replied Lady Agatha and there was a 
show of triumph in her eye and cheek, 
if not in her voice "so the damsel 
will take the name of Pullen. Then 
will he crave the king to grant her back 
her demesne of Gatherock, which," she 
added dryly, " he hath long coveted." 

" Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart," Sir Kit 
laughed, " thou canst play on the strings 
of the heart like a lute. Even Sir Gyles 
cannot withstand ye." 

" Ye make sport of me, Kit. Nay, 
husband, I do long to make the poor, 
fond maid mine own. Thou wilt come 
to love her too." 

" The mother been dead, methinks," 
said Sir Kit, studying his horse s mane, 
" when my lord went to the wars. He 
did give the wench, being then six years 
of age, to this same Dame Crawme, and 
signed a paper to make her guardian 
because of her approved trustiness." 

" Fy ! " interrupted the lady, testily, 
" be we not large enow to overcome one 
hard-necked, railing old woman ? " 

" Ay, wife," Sir Kit answered, very 
gravely ; " we be strong, but I mind me 
of the tale Nathan storied unto David, 
and the one ewe lamb." 

The lady s eyes widened and spar 
kled, but she checked the retort on her 
lips. Sir Kit, like most gentle people, 
could be " marvellous obstinate ; " all 
she said was, " Well, tis an old woman. 
An Goody Crawme did die, thou wouldst 
not withstand my suit, Kit ? " 

" By my faith, no, sweetheart," said 
Sir Kit, .heartily. 

To this Agatha made no reply. They 
rode on in silence until the lady pointed 
ahead, saying : " I did want to show ye 
the cottage lo, yonder it stands." 

The house was a wattled hut of two 
rooms, its thatched roof dipping over 
the crooked doorway like a shaggy eye 
brow. The forest curtained off the 
horizon to the right, on the left was the 
village common. Sheep grazed over the 
sleek pastures, their white backs rimmed 
with the sunlight, for the sky was kind 
ling above the tree-tops ; and in the 
little garden the herbs and " salats " and 
waving cloud of asparagus, bathed in 



that soft effulgence, glowed with the 
most vivid tints of green. 

A slim girl, in a blue Peneston frock, 
came to the doorway. Her yellow curls 
were blown about her sweet little face. 
Anyone ignorant of her affliction would 
have said that she looked down the road, 
with so much seeming intelligence and 
vivacity did she turn her head in the 
travellers direction. 

Neither would the ignorant observer 
have detected any blur or sign of infirm 
ity in her mild violet eyes. Her light, 
strong, young figure, her eager young 
face, showed as little trace of the mel 
ancholy which is expected to accompany 
her condition ; on the contrary, her en 
tire person excepting only those soft 
eyes seemed to diffuse energy and 
child-like grace and a sparkling cheer 
fulness. The truth is, Mildred, poor, 
orphaned, blind, was as happy as any 
ten-year-old little girl in England. She 
had been too young to realize the tre 
mendous catastrophe that had blotted 
out home and kindred and place in the 
world for her, and, never having seen, 
she felt no hardship in her blindness. 
She could be cheered by the sun which 
she could not see ; she sang like a bird, 
and no doubt had a bird s poignant joy 
in singing. Every day her quick mind 
mastered some novel charm or thrilling 
secret of nature. There was old Basse- 
ly to love her, and the ploughman s ba 
bies, and the lambs, and Fangs the 
dog ("the towardness o that doggy sure 
you did never seen ! " ), and an ugly cat, 
quite as dear to the affectionate little 
soul as could have been her beautiful 
catship that favored the Marquis of 
Carabas. Mildred would have demanded 
what should a little girl need more ! 

The riders drew rein before the pret 
ty picture in the doorway. 

Lady Mildred did not seem puzzled 
by their greetings, but called them by 
name, courtesying properly to each, as 
became a child, and always bending her 
small body in the right direction. 

Her demeanor and her smiling face 
were a marked contrast with Dame 
Crawme s churlishness. Either the 
elder had not tried to infect the child 
with her venomous prejudices, or she 
had failed. Lady Agatha used to won 
der how it was. 



UNDER. FIVE SHILLINGS. 



73 



She could not resist calling Mildred 
nearer, in order that she might stroke 
her soft cheek. 

" I did fet thee a gift, child," said she ; 
"in good sooth not quite a gift, since 
twas once thy lady mother s. I am 
rue that it slipped from my saddle-bow 
and is clean lost ! " 

"My mother, she is dead," said Mil 
dred s tender voice. "Bassely telled 
me. Had you ever sight of her, madam ? 
I often wonder was she like you ? " 

Lady Agatha winced. Sir Kit came 
to his wife s rescue, with a twinkle in 
his eye. The late Lady Audely, a most 
virtuous and high-born dame, had not 
been a beauty. Sir Kit, however, an 
swered decorously that there was a like 
ness, and then, diverting the subject, 
promised another hood. 

" Tis rare kind o your ladyship to 
remember me," Mildred said, gratefully. 

"I cannot forget you, child," said 
Lady Agatha, with an impatient sigh. 
" Tell me, be ye not wearied, alonely 
here so much ? " 

Mildred looked amused. 

" Nay, madam," she said, " I have a 
sight to do ; and there be Fangs, and 
Grimsey, the cat, and Dace, and little 
Anne, and plenty mo . And granny 
ever cometh at night." 

"What canst thou do, little one?" 
Sir Kit asked, playfully, interested in 
this artless prattle. 

She began, with an important air, to 
number her accomplishments on her 
fingers. " There be the sewing, I ha 
made me a shift, mainly, and the sleeves 
o two night rails " 

" God-a-mercy, maiden, how!" cried 
the knight. 

In spite of the reverence due the high 
company, a little ripple of mirth escaped 
Mildred s pretty lips ; it always affected 
her as a rare jest that people should be 
so confounded by the easy things which 
she did ; to her mind they placed a 
ridiculous value on their eyes. " Tis 
simple enow," said she ; " Bassely doth 
crease the line, and I sew therein. I 
can cook, likewise, and I holp Bassely 
make rare fine cates and simnels and 
fritters ; and all alonely I can make jus- 
sel.* 

" Sure ye be the best housekeeper of 

* From juscellum broth or pottage. 



a little maid in the county," laughed 
Sir Kit. 

Lady Agatha looked on well pleased 
(sure that the marvellous quickness of 
apprehension which had won rugged 
Sir G-yles could not fail to affect his 
son s hospitable and inquisitive mind), 
while the flattered child picked out, un 
erringly, every utensil or piece of furni 
ture that Sir Kit named, to display her 
knowledge of the room. 

All at once she ran to the door. Her 
little figure grew rigid, her merry face 
stiffened with an expression of intensest 
attention. " Tis granny," cried she, 
"but who else? There is a rowte of 
others." 

Husband and wife exchanged glances 
of amazement ; Goody Crawme did in 
deed approach, and at such a distance 
that it seemed impossible for any ear 
to detect a footfall. Behind her (in bare 
time to save the people with eyes who 
would have denied their presence) three 
men came over the crest of the hill. 
They were running. 

They got abreast of Goody Crawme 
just as she reached the hut. She turned 
on them with a scowl. The men doffed 
their caps to the dignitaries. They 
were all of the village : Jock Miller, who 
kept the mill ; Tom Hawarth, the con 
stable ; and poor "Will Lack-Wit, who 
was esteemed little better than an idiot. 
All three breathed heavily, like men that 
had strained their lungs. "Pleaseth 
your worship," cried Haw r arth, with his 
first clear breath, " we rest this woman 
for theft ! " 

There with he plucked Goody Crawme s 
cloak violently aside, and snatched the 
scarlet roll. 

By now it was too dark to distinguish 
more than the color and shape ; but 
Lady Agatha claimed it as her hood. 
She would have taken it had not the 
constable refused to yield it, saying that 
it was now evidence in the possession of 
the law and must be guarded. So he 
wrapped it up and tied it impressively, 
under the admiring eyes of Jock and 
Will. 

"Ye wicked old age " he addressed 
Goody Crawme as he worked " I war 
rant ye done the thieving i the village, 
too. We ll look i your den, ye she- 
wolf!" 



74 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



Like a she-wolf Goody Crawme glared 
at him. Not a sound did she make ; 
but her lips twitched when the miller 
joined the cry: "Jesu, mercy, dame. 
A would ne credit it o my old godsib. 
I gi en Will the lie i his teeth. A onely 
come t make sure ye beant haired out 
o your patience and led to railing, and 
had to prison for abusing o authorities. 
But ye done it ! Lord ! Lord ! " 

Mildred had flown to her nurse. In 
stead of crying, as an ordinary child 
might do, her eyes flashed and she 
stamped her tiny foot. " You be false 
scurril knaves and very wicked men," 
she shouted, " to so entreat my gran- 
dam ! She is good. She is no thief ! " 

The knight interfered. He demanded 
what was all this coil ? Let the woman 
speak, mayhap she had but picked up 
the toy in the road and purposed to re 
turn it. 

"Holy St. Stephen! Why not?" 
bawled the miller, his honest brow 
clearing. " A like hap mote come to 
any man." 

" Not to her," the constable retorted. 
Did not the miller remember how Will 
Lack- Wit, asleep and out of sight under 
the hedge-rows, had been awakened by 
her passing, and seen her run and pick 
up the hood and conceal it under her 
cloak? Yea, and did she not vehe 
mently deny having aught, when the 
said Will made inquisition of her ? 
wherefore he had run back and found 
them to pursue her. " And your wor 
ship knows," concluded Hawarth, stol 
idly (with a glance of contempt at his 
weak volunteer deputy), " there did been 
a power o picking and polling i the 
parish alate, a vamous deal o stuff lost, 
and great shame ! " 

" Ay, a parlous shame ! " repeated the 
idiot, chuckling. 

Now, in fact, this same imbecile, Will 
Lack- Wit, had done all the stealing 
himself, but he was not discovered until 
long afterward ; while Goody Crawme, 
old, sour-tempered, an assured papist 
and suspect witch, was the most natural 
person in the world to accuse. She did 
speak at last. As to the thefts in the 
village, she solemnly avowed her inno 
cence ; as to the hood, she but took 
back her lady s own. Then, with mount 
ing indignation, she poured out the 



story of her failure to move the doctor, 
inveighing against the base money ; and 
she admitted candidly that in her des 
peration she had taken the hood, es 
teeming it rightfully her lady s own. 

The miller s face worked nervously ; 
he could feel the bite of part of her argu 
ment, having lost by the money and the 
forced prices. No doubt he wished him 
self well out of the affair, especially 
when Mildred broke in, piteously : " Oh, 
granny, tis so easy to be blind. I be 
not rue at all. Oh, kind sirs, she doth 
not know how easy tis, and ever maketh 
moan for me ; and twas all for me she 
did it. Do not hurt her ! And no harm 
be done, ye have the hood again." 

"Why, so indeed we have, Tom," 
urged the miller, in a perspiration. 
" God s name, let s make no more ado 
bout it." 

" Ay," said Sir Kit, mildly, " no mis 
chief be done, and ye wot, Hawarth, tis 
robbery of a dwelling-house ye would 
make it ; a felony, no less, punishable, 
if above five shillings, with death." 

The old woman s ruddy color slipped 
out of her cheeks, and Mildred turned 
her blind face with a pathetic bewilder 
ment from one voice to another. The 
constable s dogged face gave no clue to 
his thoughts. 

" Tis on my conscience," said he, sul 
lenly, " to bring this fact afore Sir 
Gyles, that is a just and painful magis 
trate. Sure am I he will use his cus 
tomable gentleness." 

It was not for Sir Gyles s son to con 
trovert this, whatever his private qualms. 
He had nothing more to offer. But old 
Bassely was not cowed, she burst out, 
shrilly : " Hark to him crack ! His con 
science ! Zounds, I mind me how I got 
him whipt in the time of the lord that 
dead is, for deceiving of Luke Bennet s 
wife. The first strake he did curse, but 
after he did howl and skip till I was fain 
to laugh. Lord, miller, ye mind that 
sport ! " 

"Nay, dame, leave off railing," the 
knight interposed ; " tis now too late to 
call yesterday again." 

The constable, scorning retort, bade 
her make ready. Dame Crawme loos 
ened the slender arms about her neck. 
She addressed Lady Agatha. " Will ye 
take her ? " she said, in a steady voice. 



UNDER FlYE SHILLINGS. 



75 



" Yes," said Lady Agatha, as calmly, 
but she flushed red over cheek and 
brow. 

" Hath she practised with these 
against thee, gran dam ? " said the child ; 
" is she cruel to thee ? " 

The old woman struggled against 
some powerful emotion, while Lady Ag 
atha watched her coldly. 

The words, when they did come, sur 
prised the lady : " Nay, my lamb," Dame 
Crawme answered, "that she did not. 
Tis a great noble lady, and thou must 
be guided by her and obedient unto her. 
Promise me that. And do ye not fret 
nor lour, for that will hurt me sharpest 
o all." 

" But will ye not come with me, gran 
ny ? " cried the child ; " will not the lady 
free thee from the cruel bad man ? " 

" I shall be clean free i a few days, 
dearling lamb," said Bassely, steadily. 
There was something in the tone and her 
calm face that made the worthy miller 
more uncomfortable than ever. He was 
glad to be told off to search the house 
(where of course he found nothing), and 
he relieved his feelings a little by giv 
ing Mildred, who helped the searchers, a 
bright new sixpence, some very service 
able nails, and a saffron cake stuffed with 
raisins. 

Bassely had a motive in sending Mil 
dred into the house ; she thus could 
speak more freely to Lady Agatha. The 
constable frowned and gnawed his lip 
when she stepped to the lady s rein, 
praying a word aside ; nevertheless he 
did not venture to interfere. Sir Kit 
maliciously took care that he should not 
overhear the conversation, by question 
ing him briskly about the late thefts. 

It was brief enough, this conversation. 

Dame Crawme said : " Ye have con 
quered, my lady. I ax ye not to spare 
me, that ben a vain quest." 

"And out of my power," added Lady 
Agatha, quietly. 

" Cake bread and loaf bread be all one 
wi me, now," Bassely said ; " cannot or 
will not, tis no differ. Tis not o me I 
wold speak. Look you, I ha made the 
path straight for ye wi the child. I ha 
never telled her evil o ye, for I ben en 
forced with heaviness of heart for a 
great while, lest peradventure ye get 
her away, and if she be turned against 



thee, lo ! how much the worser for her ! 
Well, ye ha gotten your will ; and me " 
she gave one passing glance of inex 
pressible bitterness at the cottage" but 
for that, I ben so tossed and turrnoiled, 
I be not loath to quit this world. But, 
because that I defamed ye not, grant me 
this suit ; deal ever gently with the 
wench ! Tis a good wench, and loving 
and obedient, but there be sparkles o 
the Audely fire. Ye shall better lead 
than drive. But I fear me not i that 
point." 

" God, he knows ye have no need," 
said Lady Agatha. 

" I think mo on a nodur matter. 
Rive not all the child s kindness for her 
own away. Let her remember some 
what her own house. Regarding of re 
ligion, the holy saints must e en bog 
gle for themselves the best they can," 
said the practical old cynic, " ne er a one 
lifted a finger for me this day, and I be 
not going to make a blowe for them ! 
Well, that be nigh all. She hath an ill 
throat some days i the wind, ye will 
needs wrop her straightly. Ye will find 
all her cloathes in the big chest ; they be 
not fitten for her quality, but I done my 
best. I ax ye not to see Master Lang- 
don, for your own sake ye will do that." 

" I shall not stick at anything ye would 
have," said Lady Agatha. " God so deal 
with me as I deal with this, my daugh 
ter." 

Dame Crawme set her teeth, half 
with hatred, half with anguish, at that 
last word. " Yet why not ? " muttered 
she; "better that than to beg. Better 
the big wolves than the little." She 
spoke aloud : "I hate ye right well, but 
I trust ye. Look ye, but one suit mo . 
Ye will not let her mistrust what falleth 
on me till till it be clean done and 
ended?" 

Lady Agatha promised. I think that 
she was moved to add a kinder word, to 
express a cheering doubt as to the peril 
of the case, but pride and embarrassment 
bound her tongue ; in the event, she did 
not speak at all. 

Often, in subsequent times, the miller 
used to describe the parting ; how the 
brave little creature dashed the tears 
from her eyes, and smiled and pressed 
her flower-like face lovingly to the wrin 
kled brown cheek, and promised to be 



76 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



good till her granny could come to her 
again. 

" God help us," said the honest fellow, 
"Tom himself had not t heart t tell un 
t trowte. So she fared to the castle, 
mistrusting naught, wi our lady ; and 
Tom and me fet the old dame ; Will 
Lack- Wit, he ben no good." 

Sir Gyles s malady admitted of no in 
trusion of business that night. Conse 
quently old Bassely was locked up in 
" a strong chamber " to await her trial 
in the morning. Sir Kit could think of 
no more effectual comfort than a gener 
ous supply of food and wine. 

Lady Agatha sat in her chamber. 
The tapers in their silver candlesticks 
shed a pleasant, dim light. A bright 
fire burned in the fireplace, striking out 
splendid gleams from the gold-embroid 
ered flowers on the great canopy of the 
bed. A richly carven arch was the en 
trance to an alcove in which had been 
placed a smaller bed. Lady Agatha, in 
her rocheted chair, with her needlework 
in hand and the candle-light on a paler 
cheek than common, looked strangely 
gentle. When she glanced toward the 
alcove her eyes would soften and 
brighten. Sir Kit had his book, but 
his own eyes strayed from the clumsy 
pages to search the dimness of the al 
cove, or to rest, half sadly, half humor 
ously, on his wife s face. He was pained 
for many reasons ; but, as always with 
many-sided temperaments like his, there 
was a little thread of amusement run 
ning through his pain. 

It was he that spoke first, after a long 
silence. " The little maid was not trou 
blesome; but did you note, when we 
left her alonely, she fair wept herself to 
sleep?" 

" Yet with ne er a sound," said Lady 
Agatha ; " tis a courageous wench, Kit." 

"I mistrust me she will take the old 
dame s death hard " Sir Kit flung his 
book aside to jump up and pace the 
floor " an they send her to the assizes, 
the quest will sure cast her of felony, to 
be hanged. Tis robbery from a dwell 
ing-house, and over five shillings. Wife, 
can st thou not be her right friend with 
Sir Gyles? He hath been monstrous 
out of frame, alate, because of his sick 
ness and the thefts. He wold onely 



flout me! But thou canst spin a fair 
thread, as the saying is, and he loveth 
thee right well. Ye may bring him to 
a good trade." 

Lady Agatha shook her head dubi 
ously. 

She was not afraid of Sir Gyles like 
Kit, but she knew just how stubborn 
and tempestuous were his humors. At 
this time, too, when he was meditating 
such a splendid gift to them, it seemed 
both ungrateful and foolish to risk an 
gering the choleric old man. And for 
what ? for the most malignant and bit 
ter scold in the parish. 

Like enough the interferers would 
have a wind of hard words for their 
pains, and do no good on earth to their 
client. Sir Gyles prided himself on his 
administration of justice, his mainten 
ance of order, his wholesome severity 
with evil-doers. 

"Kit, tis a hard saying," said Lady 
Agatha, " but I perceive no remede. 
Sir Gyles is ireous when he be ill, and 
he be singular wroth about these thefts. 
An I entreated him, I mote be irk of 
mine own importunity. Nay, husband, 
tis best we meddle not withal." 

I am not Lady Agatha Pullen s judge, 
nor will I pretend to weigh her motives. 
She had hated Bassely, she coveted the 
child. The age was not one of squeam 
ish mercy ; and there are traditions of 
the Pullen family wherein Lady Agatha 
makes very short work with obstacles 
and opposers. 

Still I fancy that she did not abandon 
Bassely without compunction. Some 
how the snarling, curdled-natured old 
woman whose gossip was always snap 
ping at her heels and could hurt, low 
as it was had touched the great lady. 

Bassely s stoical courage, her heroic 
loyalty, awoke a kind of reluctant admi 
ration in her mind. Agatha was brave 
and loyal herself. She thought : " Had 
you been my servant I cold have loved 
you, and you wold have gone to the 
death for me." 

She could appreciate Bassely s trust 
in herself, but it did not move her ; 
what did move her, to an extraordinary 
degree, was the old woman s devotion to 
the child. I do not believe that she had 
ever before considered Bassely s affec 
tion for little Mildred, except as a hin- 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



77 



drance to be swept aside ; now it was 
revealed to her in a new aspect. Bassely 
loved the child even as she herself loved 
her. Bassely could sacrifice hatred and 
prejudices which were throbbing through 
her strong as her heart s blood, because 
so she would make Mildred s happiness 
safer. What better could Agatha Pul- 
len do ? 

No, I am convinced that Lady Agatha 
felt compassion for her defeated enemy ; 
and that the reason why she had shown 
no more sympathy was that she foresaw 
her helplessness and her decision of 
to-night. Besides, there remained the 
child. Sir Kit never would allow her to 
keep the child from Bassely, did Basse 
ly live. Yet every mother instinct in 
Agatha Pullen clung to the little, soft, 
brave, helpless, female thing. " My little 
daughter," she repeated, "ah, I cold 
make thee so happy ! Why, tis clean 
against nature to suffer thee go back to 
poverty ! " 

She rose and paced with her stately 
deliberate step into the alcove, her pur 
ple damask gown trailing on the oaken 
floor and richly painted by the fire-light. 
She stood a long time, sombrely watch 
ing the sleeping child. 

What her decision cost her, who, with 
modern lights and ideals, shall com 
pute ? Some harsh pang she certainly 
felt, to grow so pale, as she said, firmly, 
" Nay, right or wrong, I cannot do it." 

Sir Gyles awoke in a bad humor. The 
pain was abated ; but Dr. Langdon s 
mediaeval anodynes were like our pres 
ent pain-dullers in the discomfort which 
they bequeath to the next morning. 
Vainly, however, did Sir Kit, hoping for 
a more propitious mood, beg his father 
to defer Goody Crawme s examination. 

"Do thou learn, sirrah, that a right 
man can put his dolour and heaviness 
aside more easier than his duty ! " This 
was all that Sir Kit got for his good-will, 
except a few pungent criticisms of the 
rising generation, such as the departing 
generation always has had in store. 

"I trow ye be like all the rest 
slothful, lazy lubbers, wastethrifts and 
squanderers, swimming in soft living " 
poor Sir Kit liked a good dinner 
"caring for naught but to go gay in 
new-fangled, fantastical coats, and be 



trimmed up with all manner of fine rai 
ment ! Mincing and pranking more like 
puppets than men ! " 

So Sir Gyles grumbled on. Of course 
he demanded what merry England was 
coming to, and he drew a lively picture 
of the simple and virtuous youth of his 
own day ; to all of which Sir Kit lis 
tened respectfully. He helped his father 
down-stairs and settled him in his chair 
of state in the great hall. 

A noble old hall it was, and is since 
to this day the visitor admires the grand 
timber ceiling with its thwarted arches 
and pendants, its vast, traceried Tudor 
windows, and the lawless splendor of its 
carved wainscoting. During Sir Gyles s 
occupancy the walls bristled with armor, 
which he never wore, and weapons of 
the chase as foreign to him as to any 
man on earth. But then he was accus 
tomed to say Kit was the fighting man 
of the family ; and he liked to recount 
(being secretly mighty proud of the son 
whom he was always abusing) Kit s ex 
ploits in the two rebellions, and his vig 
orous pursuit of certain malapert out 
laws who had harried the king s lieges 
of Audely for a space, but had been capt 
ured by the son and promptly de 
spatched by the father, to the joyful 
contentment of all honest men. 

It was quite in the manner of the 
time to commemorate Sir Kit s valor 
on the arras which decked the north 
wall. There was a portrait of him, in 
armor, as well as a portrait (by no less 
a painter than the great Hans himself) 
representing Sir Gyles in his corpora 
tion robes, and a family group of Sir 
Gyles, the late Lady Gyles, and the two 
boys. These glowing figures had dis 
placed the dusky canvases of the Audelys. 

Between Sir Gyles and the fire was a 
"travers," a movable screen, covered 
with " cloth of gold baudekyn," the weft 
of which was gold and the woof silk 
with embroidery. Carved benches of 
oak, not so dark by many degrees then 
as now, were ranged about the hall. 

The principal other article of furni 
ture was a long rectangular table, such 
as appears in all the prints of the time. 
Sir Gyles was enthroned, so to speak, 
behind the table. Sir Kit acted as clerk, 
having a pile of law books, and another 
pile of quills, almost as high, near the 



78 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



huge " ink-horn." To further aid the 
smooth working of the scales of Justice, 
divers silver cups of sack glittered on 
the board. 

Doctor Langdon was in attendance, 
on the general ground that he was a 
learned personage. He viewed the spec 
tacle with the same ironic smile which 
he had given to Hawarth s horrors the 
day before. 

Sir Gyles s rubicund and clumsy feat 
ures were drawn awry by a peevish 
scowl. His gray beard was sunk in the 
collar of his furred robe. 

"I pity the poor miser you will 
judge," thought Dr. Langdon. 

Blacker and blacker grew the justice s 
frown over the constable s charge. 

In truth, it was a lame recital. The 
zealous guardians of the law had been 
warmly greeted by the steward, and de 
tained over night by the blandishments 
of good fellowship and prime ale. The 
mirth, in fine, waxed so loud that it had 
summoned my lady herself. She re 
proved them sternly for riot which might 
disturb Sir Gyles, and bade them lay 
the constable by this hour quite past 
speech on some sheep-skins in the 
dye-house, where he might sleep himself 
sober. By morning neither the miller 
nor the steward was the worse for ex 
cesses so common at the time ; but poor 
Tom s head was spinning as if from raps 
of the quarter-staff. 

"More shame to thee, guzzling and 
swilling!" his unsympathetic comrade 
of the mill told him, " and my lady send 
ing thee a fair silver cup o canarie from 
her own table, for grace ! " 

"Well she mote," retorted Tom, "I 
ha rid her slick o a thorn i her side. 
But I wold she ha filled it wi honest ale. 
A plague o them foreign possets, say I, 
my head and stomach be all hurly-burly ! " 

He cursed them the more heartily 
when Lady Agatha herself entered the 
hall, serene and haughty, and returned 
an icy greeting to his obeisance. 

Well, it was some amends to handle 
old Bassely roughly. He hustled her 
into the presence. Once she stumbled, 
whereupon he jerked her furiously back 
ward by her cloak-strings, choking her. 

To the miller s remonstrance he an 
swered : " I warrant the hangman will 
hurt her mo ! 5 



But Jock Miller swore a good round 
oath, in a whisper ; and, at the same 
time, said a rough word of comfort in 
her ear. Until this the staunch old 
hater had not changed countenance, but 
now her eyes grew wet. 

Some of the old servants of Audely 
who were in the hall could not dissemble 
their pity ; indeed, the women s sniffs 
were loud enough to reach Sir Gyles. 

"Why do the wenches blubber so?" 
growled he. 

Sir Kit explained that they pitied 
Goody Crawme, the accused, who had 
been kind to them in her good days. 

Thereupon he handed Bassely a chair. 
" She is debile and weak," he apolo 
gized, " pray you let her sit ! " 

" Umph ! " snorted Sir Gyles, " ye be 
soft like milk." But he motioned her 
to take the chair. 

Kit stole a glance in the only quarter 
where he hoped for understanding. 
Lady Agatha did not return his look. 
She wore an inscrutable air, observing 
Bassely with a kind of cold interest. 
Even so, thought Kit, who was learned 
in the classics, must the cruel Roman 
dames have studied the gladiators in 
the combats. Sir Kit s heart felt sore. 
"I* faith, women, for all their soft eyes, 
be harder than we," he said to himself. 

Sir Gyles called on him to read the 
accusation. 

Dame Crawme pleaded " Not guilty." 
Following the miller s whispered advice, 
she added: " T ben a worthless gaud. 
Pleaseth your noble worship, so the value 
be under five shillings tis no felony." 

" Will ye teach me the law, woman ? " 
said Sir Gyles, sourly. "Constable, 
where be the said hood ? " 

Hawarth pulled off the wrappings 
from his bundle, and swung out the 
hood with a flourish. The result was 
astounding. 

Hawarth could not restrain a furious 
exclamation. Old Bassely turned white 
as ashes. Sir Gyles swelled with be 
wilderment and anger ; while his son 
flued his eyes to his book, twirling his 
dr mustache the miller swore after 
ward that he thus smuggled away a 
smile. Dr. Langdon also smiled. He 
had guessed the motive of the theft, 
and was rather pleased to have the 
woman acquitted. 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



79 



Only Lady Agatha guarded her indif 
ference. On all the other spectators 
faces were painted the varying emotions 
which attended their sympathies. 

For, plain to see, the gorgeous scarlet 
and gold, the delicate embroidery of 
pearls were blotched with great black 
burns, as if the cloth had been rolled in 
the coals. It had been a gentlewoman s 
hood ; it was an unsightly rag. 

" What mean ye by this jest, consta 
ble ?" Sir Gyles rapped out. "Ye said 
a fair hood ; here be no fitten garment 
for wearing ! " 

Hawarth stammered that there had 
been some foul trick played on him. He 
could show by witnesses that it was a 
costly hood yesterday. 

His witnesses, however, failed him 
flatly. Sir Kit could not see the gaud, 
"it been too dark." 

The miller followed in his lord s wake. 
Twas main dark and he had noted 
nothing. Will Lack- Wit, scared by Sir 
Kit s sharp questions, made a sad mess 
of his evidence, which Sir Gyles cut 
short in an access of disgust. The 
Lady Agatha was the constable s last 
hope, but she did no better for him. 
Questioned, on oath, she deposed that 
the hood was hers and that she had lost 
it yesterday. Yes, it was in mean good 
reparacion when she did see it last. 
She could not on her oath say where she 
did lose it. She assuredly should call 
the hood worthless now. 

At this point Sir Kit ventured to 
whisper his father that the constable 
had an ancient grudge against Goody 
Crawme ; belike he did take this chance 
to feed it fat. His charge that she was 
the author of the thefts in the village 
was clean out of reason. The house had 
been searched and naught found. She 
bore a right good name i the village of 
all who knew her. 

Sir Gyles pondered. He was a be 
liever in "the terribleness of punish 
ments " it was the belief of his age ; 
but he had a robust sense of j tistice, and 
was not unmerciful by nature. He con 
cluded to call witnesses respecting Dame 
Crawme s character. Thanks to the mil 
ler, they were at hand, and emboldened 
by Sir Kit s "aimiable and comfortable 
countenance," they spoke frankly in 
her favor. 



The clerking knight summed up the 
case to himself, during a painful silence. 
He took a deep draught of wine. 

"Prisoner," said he, then, "ye be 
quit. But I warn ye, trespass no more 
on others lands ! Had ye been walk 
ing i the highway, as behooved ye, this 
mischief had not befallen ye. I pass 
that, this once. And leave ye your 
neighbors goods alone ; though they 
look worthless they may chance cost 
ye dear. As for you, constable, know 
that the law be to shield the innocent 
effectuously, as to punish evil-doers. 
Therefore be not cock-sure and over- 
hasty." 

On the whole Sir Gyles acquitted him 
self very well with the scales and sword. 
And there was a real enthusiasm in Sir 
Kit s compliments. 

Now, rough-tempered, domineering, 
blustering Sir Gyles secretly valued the 
opinion of his calm son. He thawed 
into a wintry good humor ; that very 
day is the date of his deed of gift of 
Audely to his beloved son, Christopher 
PuUen. 

He sent a purse after Bassely. By 
good luck the miller was near, whence it 
happened that, in place of flinging it in 
the messenger s face, she kept it and re 
turned (in the miller s person) a most 
fitting, humble acknowledgment. 

Previously Dr. Langdon had been 
consulted by Lady Agatha concerning 
Mildred s eyes. He pronounced them 
capable of cure ; and, indeed, he proved 
himself as strong as his boast. During 
the whole interview he was thinking, 
" Twas sure this lady bore the matter 
in hand but why ? " 

Another man wondered in the same 
strain, but his answer was ready. 

No sooner were Sir Kit and his wife 
by themselves than he embraced her, 
lovingly. " Sweetheart," he whispered, 
" I cold kneel down and kiss your foot 
because that I wronged you so. I am 
assured twas thee contrived this end 
ing." 

"Jock Miller and I," said Agatha, 
happily ; " tis a faithful knave was in 
my father s train. A word was enow to 
him." 

"And the silver cup ? I marvelled ye 
shold do the bandog such grace." 

" I crave thy pardon, Kit, for my se- 



80 



TO THE CRICKET. 



crecy. But I wold not tangle thee in 
my naughty facts. Twas a posset o Dr. 
Langdon s for sleepless night. Twold 
do no harm, he saith." 

" And after, when I did miss ye for a 
little space " 

" I fear me, Kit, I been a robber my 
self, albeit I did give back the property 
and twas mine own." 

" And yet," said Sir Kit, slowly, "you 
coveted the child ! " 

" That property, too, must be restored," 
she said, sorrowfully ; "but but thou 
wilt not liken me to David, or the wicked 
rich man " 

" I will liken thee to nothing on earth, 
for there is no woman so noble ! " cried 
her husband, ardently. 

How it happened I am not able to say, 
but the story of the lady s action must 
have reached old Bassely through some 
channel (perhaps the miller), because 
when the young Lady Mildred, laden 
with gifts, was returned that same day 
to her, it is on record that she forthwith 
trudged her back to the castle. 

" Tis my lady s fitten place," said 
she. 

" But how can ye bear to part from 
her? "said Sir Kit. 

" I mean not so to do," replied the old 
woman, composedly ; " how chance I may 
not stay here to serve ye withal ? I be 



a main better cook than your Master 
Jack, the French fellow." 

So the matter arranged itself ; Dame 
Crawme rose to a high position in the 
household, and served Lady Agatha and 
Mildred Pullen, Countess of Audely and 
Gatherock, until the day of her death. 

It may be supposed that so stanch a 
partisan and so stanch a Catholic as 
Bassely had some wrestling of soul re 
garding her new masters, Sir Gyles, the 
usurer, and Sir Kit, the monk. Not she ; 
discovering Sir Gyles s munificent inten 
tions toward Lady Mildred, she prompt 
ly dismissed all the scandal as " cursed 
lies ; " she declared, truly enough, that 
the Pullens had been no party to her 
dear lord s destruction ; and was not 
Lady Mildred (through them) coming 
to her own again ? Sir Kit s marriage 
she viewed with the same philosophy. 

"Mayhap his saints bewrayed him, 
like St. Stephen done me," Bassely would 
say ; " sure I wunnot blame him. And 
at leastways twas on his bishop s head, 
not his, poor seely lad. I warrant me 
that wicked bishop will burn for unfrock 
ing a monk ; but Sir Kit, it ben his 
bounden duty to obey. Nay, he be no 
mo a monk nor you, Miller. The scur- 
ril knaves put me out o my patience wi 
their clatter ; an I ben my lord, I wold 
hang them up by the heels i the pillory ! " 



TO THE CRICKET. 

By A. Lampman. 



DIDST thou not tease and fret me to and fro, 
Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, 
With that quiet voice of thine, that would not yield 

Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so? 

But now I am content to let it go, 

To lie at length and watch the swallows pass, 
As blithe and restful as this quiet grass, 

Content only to listen, and to know 

That years shall turn and summers yet shall shine, 
And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees, 
Still listening thus ; haply at last to seize 

And render in some happier verse divine 

That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine, 
That perfect utterance of content and ease. 



IN THE VALLEY. 

By Harold Frederic. 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE STRANGE USES TO WHICH REVENGE MAY 
BE PUT. 

^~ N after times, when it 
could do no harm to 
tell this story, people 
were wont to regard 
as its most remarka 
ble feature the fact 
that we made the trip 
from the Oriskany 
battle-field to Cairncross in five days. 
There was never exhibited any special 
interest in the curious workings of 
mind, and conscience too, if you like, 
which led me to bring my enemy 
home ; some few, indeed, like General 
Arnold, to whom I recounted the affair 
a fortnight later when he marched up 
the Valley, frankly said that I was a fool 
for my pains and doubtless many 
others dissembled the same opinion. 
But they all with one accord expressed 
surprise, admiration, even incredulity, 
at the despatch with which we accom 
plished the difficult journey. 

This achievement was, of course, en 
tirely due to Enoch. At the outset he 
protested stoutly against the waste of 
time and trouble involved in my plan. 
It was only after much argument that I 
won him over to consenting, which he 
did with evident reluctance. But it is 
right to say that, once embarked on the 
adventure, he carried it through faith 
fully and with zeal. 

The wounded man lay silent, with 
closed eyes, while our discussion went 
on. He seemed in a half lethargic state, 
probably noting all that we said, yet un 
der too heavy a spell of pain and weak 
ness to care to speak. It was not until 
we two had woven a rough sort of litter 
out of hickory saplings, covered thick 
with moss and hemlock twigs, and 
Enoch had knelt by his side to look to 
his wounds again, that Cross spoke : 

" Leave me alone ! " he groaned an 
grily. " It makes me worse to have you 



touch me. Are you not satisfied? I 
am dying ; that ought to be enough for 
you." 

"Don t be a fool, Mr. Cross," said 
Enoch, imperturbably, moving his hand 
along the course of the bandage. " We re 
trying to save your life. I don t know 
just why, but we are. Don t make it 
extra hard for us. All the help we want 
from you is for you to hold your jaw." 

" You are going to give me up to your 
Oneidas ! " cried the suffering man, rais 
ing his head by a violent effort at the 
words, and staring affrightedly straight 
ahead of him. 

There, indeed, were the two friendly 
Indians who had come with me to the 
swamp, and had run forward in pursuit 
of Cross s companions. They had re 
turned with absolute noiselessness, and 
stood now some ten feet away from us, 
gazing with stolid composure at our 
group. 

A hideous bunch of fresh scalp-locks 
dangled from the belt of each, and, on 
the bare legs beneath, stains of some 
thing darker than vermilion mingled 
with the pale ochre that had been rubbed 
upon the skin. The savages breathed 
heavily from their chase, and their black 
eyes were fairly aflame w r ith excitement, 
but they held the muscles of their faces 
in an awesome rigidity. They were 
young men whom pious Samuel Kirk- 
land had laboriously covered, through 
years of effort, with a Christian veneer 
ing. If the good dominie could have 
been there and seen the glances they 
bent upon the wounded enemy at our 
feet I fear me he would have groaned in 
spirit. 

" Keep them off ! " shrieked Cross, his 
head all in a tremble with the sustained 
exertion of holding itself up. "I will 
not be scalped ! So help me God, I will 
not ! " 

The Indians knew enough of English 
to understand this frantic cry. They 
looked at me as much as to say that this 
gentleman s resolution did not materi 
ally alter the existing situation, the prob- 



82 



IN THE GALLEY. 



abilities of which were all on the other 
side. 

"Lay your head down, Mr. Cross," 
said Enoch, almost gently. " Just keep 
cool, or you ll bust your bandages off. 
They won t hurt you till we give em the 
word." 

Still he made fitful efforts to rise, and 
a faint purplish color came into his 
throat and cheeks as he strove excitedly. 
If Enoch had not held his arm he would 
have torn off the plaster from his breast. 

" It shall not be done ! I will die 
now ! You shall not save me to be tor 
tured scalped by these devils ! " 

I intervened here. "You need fear 
nothing from these Indians," I said, 
bending over him. "Lie back again 
and calm yourself. We are different 
from the brutes in your camp. We pay 
no price for scalps." 

"Perhaps those are not scalps they 
have hanging there ; it is like your cant 
ing tongue to deny it ! " 

It was easy to keep my temper with 
this helpless foe. " These savages have 
their own way of making war," I an 
swered calmly. "They are defending 
their own homes against invasion, as 
well as we are. But we do not bribe 
them to take scalps." 

" Why not be honest you ! " he said, 
disdainfully. "You are going to give 
me up. Don t sicken me with preach 
ing into the bargain ! " 

"Why be silly you!" I retorted. 
"Does the trouble we propose taking 
for you look like giving you up ? What 
would be easier than to leave you here 
for the wolves, or these Indians here. 
Instead of that we are going to carry 
you all the way to your home. We are 
going to hide you at Cairncross until 
I can get a parole for you from General 
Schuyler. Now will you keep still ? " 

He did relapse into silence at this a 
silence that was born alike of mystifica 
tion and utter weakness. 

Enoch explained to the Oneidas, 
mainly in their own strange tongue, my 
project of conveying this British pris 
oner, intact so far as hair went, down 
the Valley. I could follow him enough 
to know that he described me as a war 
rior of great position and valor ; it was 
less flattering to have him explain that 
Cross was also a leading chief, and that 



I would get a magnificent ransom by 
delivering him up to Congress. 

Doubtless it was wise not to approach 
the Indian mind with less practical ar 
guments. I saw this, and begged Enoch 
to add that much of this reward should 
be theirs if they would accompany us 
on our journey. 

"They would be more trouble than 
they are worth," he said. " They 
wouldn t help carry him more than 
ten minutes a day. If they ll tell me 
where one of their canoes is hid, betwixt 
here and Fort Schuyler, that will be 
enough." 

The result was that Enoch got such 
information of this sort as he desired, 
together with the secret of a path near 
by which would lead us to the river trail. 
I cut two buttons from my coat in re 
turn, and gave them to the savages ; each 
being a warranty for eight dollars upon 
production at my home, half way be 
tween the old and the new houses of the 
great and lamented Warrraghiyagey, 
as they had called Sir William Johnson. 
This done, and the trifling skin-wound 
on my arm re-dressed, we lifted Cross 
upon the rude litter and started for the 
trail. 

I seem to see again the spectacle upon 
which I turned to look for a last time 
before we entered the thicket. The sky 
beyond the fatal forest wore still its 
greenish, brassy color, and the clouds 
upon the upper limits of this unnatural 
glare were of a vivid, sinister crimson, 
like clots of fresh blood. In the calm 
gray-blue of the twilight vault above 
birds of prey circled, with a horrible 
calling to one another. No breath of 
air stirred the foliage or the bending 
rushes in the swale. We could hear no 
sound from our friends at the head of 
the ravine, a full half-mile away. Save 
for the hideous noises of the birds a 
perfect silence rested upon this blood- 
soaked oasis of the wilderness. The 
little brook babbled softly past us ; the 
strong western light flashed upon the 
rain-drops among the leaves. On the 
cedar-clad knoll the two young Indians 
stood motionless in the sunset radiance, 
watching us gravely. 

We passed into the enfolding depths 
of the woods, leaving the battle-field to 
the furred and feathered scavengers and 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



the scalping-knives of the forest prime 
val. 

Our slow and furtive course down the 
winding river was one long misery. I 
recall no other equally wretched five 
days in my life. 

The canoe which Enoch unearthed on 
our first evening was a small and frag 
ile affair, in which only one beside the 
wounded man could be accommodated. 
The other must take his way as best he 
could through the sprawling tangle of 
water-alders, wild artichoke, and vines, 
facing myriads of flies and an intoler 
able heat in all the wet places, with their 
sweltering luxuriance of rank vegetation. 
One day of this nearly reduced me to 
the condition of our weak and helpless 
prisoner. I staggered blindly along 
toward its close, covered to the knees 
with black river-mud, my face and 
wounded arm stinging with the scratches 
of poisonous ivy and brambles, my brain 
aching savagely, my strength and spirit 
all gone. I could have wept like a child 
from sheer exhaustion when at last I 
came to the nook on the little stream 
where Enoch had planned to halt, and 
flung myself on the ground utterly worn 
out. 

We were somewhat below Fort Schuy- 
ler, as near to the first settlements on 
the German Flatts as we might with 
safety venture by daylight. Thereafter 
we must hide during the days, and steal 
down the river at night. Enoch had a 
small store of smoked beef ; for the rest 
we ate berries, wild grapes, and one or 
two varieties of edible roots which he 
knew of. We dared not build a fire. 

Philip Cross passed most of his time, 
while we lay hiding under cover, in a 
drowsy restless stupor, broken by fever 
ish intervals of nervous activity of mind 
which were often very like delirium. 
The heat, the fly-pest, and the malarial 
atmosphere of the dank recesses in which 
we lay, all combined to make his days 
very bad. At night in the canoe, float 
ing noiselessly down the stream, Enoch 
said he seemed to suffer less and to be 
calmer in his mind. But at no time, 
for the first three days at least, did he 
evince any consciousness that we were 
doing for him more than might under 
the circumstances be expected. His 



glance seemed sometimes to bespeak 
puzzled thoughts. But he accepted all 
our ministrations and labors with either 
the listless indifference of a man ill unto 
death, or the composure of an aristocrat 
who took personal service and attention 
for granted. 

After we had passed the Little Falls 
which we did on our third night out 
the chief danger from shallows and 
rifts was over, and Enoch was able to 
exchange places with me. It was no 
great trouble to him, skilful woodsman 
that he was, to make his way along the 
bank even in the dark, while in the now 
smooth and fairly broad course I could 
manage the canoe well enough. 

The moon shone fair upon us, as our 
little bark glided down the river. We 
were in the deep current which pushes 
forcefully forward under the new press 
ure of the East Canada waters, and 
save for occasional guidance there was 
small need of my paddle. The scene 
was very beautiful to the eye the white 
light upon the flood, the soft calm 
shadows of the willowed banks, the 
darker, statelier silhouettes of the for 
est trees, reared black against the pale 
sky. 

There is something in the restful 
radiance of moonlight which mellows 
hearts. The poets learned this, ages 
since ; I realized it now, as my glance 
fell upon the pallid face in the bow be 
fore me. We were looking at one an 
other, and my hatred of him, nursed 
through years, seemed suddenly to have 
taken to itself wings. I had scarcely 
spoken to him during the voyage other 
than to ask him of his wound. Now a 
thousand gentle impulses stirred within 
me, all at once, and moved my tongue. 

"Are you out of pain to-night?" I 
asked him. " The journey is a hard one 
at best for a wounded man. I would 
we could have commanded a larger and 
more commodious boat." 

" Oh, aye ! So far as bodily suffering 
goes, I am free from it," he made answer, 
languidly. Then, after a little pause, 
he went on, in a low musing voice : 
" How deathly still everything is ! I 
thought that in the wilderness one heard 
always the night-yelping of the wolves. 
We did at Cairncross, I know. Yet 
since we started I have not heard one. 



84 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



It is as if we were going through a dead 
country." 

Enoch had explained the reason for 
this silence to me, and I thoughtlessly 
blurted it out. 

"Every wolf for forty miles round 
about is up at the battle-field," I said. 
"It is fairly marvellous how such in 
telligence spreads among these brutes. 
They must have a language of their 
own. How little we really understand 
of the animal creation about us, with 
all our pride of wisdom ! Even the 
shark, sailors aver, knows which ship to 
pursue." 

He shuddered, and closed his eyes as 
I spoke. I thought at first that he had 
been seized with a spasm of physical 
anguish, by the drawn expression of his 
face ; then it dawned upon me that his 
suffering was mental. 

" Yes, I dare say they are all there ! " 
he said, lifting his voice somewhat. "I 
can hear them see them ! Do you 
know," he went on excitedly, "all day 
long, all night long, I seem to have 
corpses all about me. They are there 
just the same when I close my eyes 
when I sleep. Some of them are my 
friends ; others I do not know, but they 
all know me. They look at me out of 
dull eyes ; they seem to say they are 
waiting for me and then there are the 
wolves ! " 

He began shivering at this again, and 
his voice sank into a piteous quaver. 

" These are but fancies," I said, gently, 
as one would speak to a child awakened 
in terror by a nightmare. "You will 
be rid of them once you get where you 
can have rest and care." 

It seemed passing strange that I 
should be talking thus to a man of as 
powerful frame as myself, and even 
older in years. Yet he was so wan and 
weak, and the few days of suffering had 
so altered, I may say refined, his face 
and mien, that it was natural enough 
too, when one thinks of it. 

He became calmer after this, and 
looked at me for a long time as I pad 
dled through a stretch of still water, in 
silence. 

" You must have been well born, after 
all," he said, finally. 

I did not wholly understand his mean 
ing, but answered : 



" Why, yes, the Van Hoorns are a very 
good family noble in some branches, 
in fact and my father had his sheep 
skin from Utrecht. But what of it ? " 

"What I would say is, you have acted 
in all this like a gentleman." 

I could not help smiling to myself, 
now that I saw what was in his mind. 
"For that matter," I answered lightly, 
" it does not seem to me that either the 
Van Hoorns or the dead Mauverensens 
have much to do with it." I remem 
bered my mother s parting remark to 
me, and added: "The only Van Hoorn 
I know of in the Valley will not be at 
all pleased to learn I have brought you 
back." 

" Nobody will be pleased ! " he said, 
gloomily. 

After that it was fit that silence 
should again intervene, for I could not 
gainsay him. He closed his eyes, as if 
asleep, and I paddled on in the alter 
nate moonlight and shadow. 

The recollection of my mother s 
words brought with it a great train of 
thoughts, mostly bitter. I was bearing 
home with me a man who was not only 
not wanted, but whose presence and 
continued life meant the annihilation of 
all the inchoate hopes and dreams my 
heart these last two years had fed upon. 
It was easy to be civil, even kind, to 
him in his present helpless, stricken 
state ; anybody with a man s nature 
could do that. But it was not so easy 
to look resignedly upon the future, from 
which all light and happiness were ex 
cluded by the very fact that he was alive. 

More than once during this reverie, 
be it stated in frankness, the reflection 
came to me that by merely tipping the 
canoe over I could even now set every 
thing right. Of course I put the evil 
thought away from me, but still it came 
obstinately back more than once. Un 
der the momentary spell of this devilish 
suggestion I even looked at the form 
recumbent before me, and noted how 
impossible it was that it should ever 
reach the bank, once in the water. 
Then I tore my mind forcibly from the 
idea, as one looking over a dizzy height 
leaps back lest the strange latent im 
pulse of suicide shall master him, and 
fixed my thoughts instead upon the man 
himself. 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



85 



His talk about my being well born 
helped me now to understand his char 
acter better than I had before been able 
to do. I began to realize the existence 
in England in Europe generally, I 
dare say of a kind of man strange to 
our American ideas ; a being within 
whom long tradition and sedulous train 
ing had created two distinct men one 
affable, honorable, generous, likeable 
among his equals, the other cold, self 
ish, haughty, and harsh to his inferiors. 
It struck me now that there had always 
been two Philips, and that I had. been 
shown only the rude and hateful one be 
cause my station had not seemed to en 
title me to consort with the other. 

Once started upon this explanation I 
began to comprehend the whole story. 
To tell the truth, I had never under 
stood why this young man should have 
behaved so badly as he did ; there had 
been to me always a certain wantonness 
of brutality in his conduct wholly inex 
plicable. The thing was plainer now. 
In his own country, he would doubtless 
have made a tolerable husband, a fair 
landlord, a worthy gentleman in the 
eyes of the only class of people whose 
consideration he cared for. But over 
here, in the new land, all the conditions 
had been against him. He had drawn 
down upon himself and all those about 
him overwhelming calamity simply be 
cause he had felt himself under the 
cursed obligation to act like a " gentle 
man," as he called it. His contempt 
uous dislike of me, his tyrannical treat 
ment of his wife when she did not fall 
in with his ambitions, his sulky resort to 
dissipation, his fierce espousal of the 
Tory side against the common herd I 
could trace now the successive steps by 
which obstinacy had led him down the 
fell incline. 

I do not know that I had much satis 
faction from this analysis, even when I 
had worked it all out. It was worth 
while, no doubt, to arrive at a knowl 
edge of Philip s true nature, and to see 
that, under other circumstances, he 
might have been as good a man as 
another. But all the same my heart 
grew heavy under the recurring thought 
that the saving of his life meant the de 
struction of all worth having in mine. 

Every noiseless stroke of my paddle in 
VOL. VIII. 7 



the water, bearing him toward home, as 
it did, seemed to push me farther back 
into a chill, unknown world of gloom 
and desolation. Yet, God help me, I 
could do no other ! 



CHAPTER XXXVI 

A FINAL SCENE IN THE GULF WHICH MY 
EYES AKE MEKCIFULLY SPAKED. 

JUST before daybreak of the fifth day 
we stole past the sleeping hamlet of 
Caughnawaga, and as the sun was rising 
over the Schoharie hills I drew up the 
canoe into the outlet of Dadanoscara 
Creek a small brook which came down 
through the woods from the high land 
whereon Cairncross stood. Our jour 
ney by water was ended. 

Enoch was waiting for us, and helped 
me lift Cross from the canoe. His body 
hung inert in our arms ; not even my 
clumsy slipping on the bank of the rivu 
let startled him from the deep sleep in 
which he had lain for hours in the boat. 

"I have been frightened ! Can he be 
dying ? " I asked. 

Enoch knelt beside him, and put his 
hand over the patient s heart. He shook 
his head dubiously after a moment, and 
said : " It s tearing along like a race 
horse. He s in a fever the worst kind. 
This ain t sleep it s stupor." 

He felt the wounded man s pulse and 
temples. " If you re bent on saving his 
life," he added, "you d better scoot off 
and get some help. Before we can make 
another litter for him, let alone taking 
him up this creek-bed to his house, it 
may be too late. If we had a litter 
ready, it might be different. As it is, I 
don t see but you will have to risk it, 
and bring somebody here." 

For once in my life my brain worked 
in flashes. I actually thought of some 
thing which had not occurred to Enoch ! 

" Why not carry him in this canoe ? " 
I asked. "It is lighter than any litter 
we could make." 

The trapper slapped his lank, leather- 
clad thigh in high approval " By ho- 
key ! " he said, " you ve hit it ! " 

We sat on the mossy bank, on either 
side of the insensible Philip, and ate the 
last remaining fragments of our store 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



of food. Another day of this and we 
should have been forced to shoot some 
thing, and light a fire to cook it over, no 
matter what the danger. Enoch had, 
indeed, favored this course two days be 
fore, but I clung to my notion of keep 
ing Cross s presence in the Valley an ab 
solute secret. His life would have been 
in deadly peril hereabouts, even before 
the battle. How bitterly the hatred of 
him and his traitor fellows must have 
been augmented by the slaughter of 
that cruel ambuscade I could readily 
imagine. With what words could I 
have protected him against the right 
eous rage of a Snell, for example, or a 
Seeber, or any one of a hundred others 
who had left kinsmen behind in that 
fatal gulch ? No ! There must be no 
risk run by meeting anyone. 

With the scanty meal finished our 
rest was at an end. We ought to lose 
no time. Each minute s delay in get 
ting the wounded man under a roof, in 
bed. within reach of aid and nursing, 
might be fatal. 

It was no light task to get the canoe 
upon our shoulders, after we had put in 
it our guns, covered these with ferns 
and twigs, and upon these laid Philip s 
bulky form, and a very few moments 
progress showed that the work before 
us was to be no child s play. The con 
formation of the canoe made it a rather 
awkward thing to carry, to begin with. 
To bear it right side up, laden as it was, 
over eight miles of almost continuous 
ascent, through a perfectly unbroken 
wilderness, was as laborious an under 
taking as it is easy to conceive. 

We toiled along so slowly, and the 
wretched little brook, whose bed we 
strove to follow, described such a wan 
dering course, and was so often rendered 
fairly impassable by rocks, driftwood, 
and overhanging thicket, that when the 
sun hung due south above us we had 
covered barely half our journey, and 
confronted still the hardest portion of 
it. We were so exhausted when this 
noon hour came, too, that I could make 
no objection when Enoch declared his 
purpose of getting some trout from the 
brook, and cooking them. Besides, we 
were far enough away from the river 
highway and from all habitations, now, 
to render the thing practically safe. Ac 



cordingly I lighted a small fire of the 
driest wood to be found, while the trap 
per stole up and down the brook, mov 
ing with infinite stealth and dexterity, 
tracking down fish and catching them 
with his hands under the stones. 

Soon he had enough for a meal and, 
niy word ! it was a feast for emperors 
or angels. We stuffed the pink dainties 
with mint, and baked them in balls of 
clay. It seemed as if I had not eaten 
before in years. 

We tried to rouse Cross sufficiently 
to enable him to eat, and in a small 
way succeeded, but the effect upon 
him was scarcely beneficial, it appeared 
to us. His fever increased, and when 
we started out once more under our bur 
den, the motion inseparable from our 
progress affected his head, and he began 
to talk incoherently to himself. 

Nothing can be imagined more weird 
and startling than was the sound of this 
voice above us, when we first heard it. 
Both Enoch and I instinctively stopped. 
For the moment we could not tell 
whence the sound came, and I know not 
what wild notions about it flashed 
through my mind. Even when we real 
ized that it was the fever-loosed tongue 
of our companion which spoke, the ef 
fect was scarcely less uncanny. Though 
I could not see him, the noise of his 
ceaseless talking came from a point 
close to my head ; he spoke for the 
most part in a bold, high voice unnatu 
rally raised above the pitch of his recent 
faint waking utterances. Whenever a 
fallen log or jutting bowlder gave us a 
chance to rest our load without the 
prospect of too much work in hoisting 
it again, we would set the canoe down 
and that moment his lips would close. 
There seemed to be some occult connec 
tion between the motion of our walking 
and the activity of his disordered brain. 

For a long time of course in a very 
disconnected way he babbled about 
his mother, and of people, presumably 
English, of whom I knew nothing save 
that one name, Digby, was that of his 
elder brother. Then there began to be 
interwoven with this talk stray mention 
of Daisy s name, and soon the whole dis 
course was of her. 

The freaks of delirium have little sig 
nificance, I believe, as clues to the saner 



IN THE GALLEY. 



courses of the mind, but he spoke only 
gently in his imaginary speeches to his 
wife. I had to listen, plodding wearily 
along with aching shoulders under the 
burden of the boat, to fond, affectionate 
words addressed to her in an incessant 
string. The thread of his ideas seemed 
to be that he had arrived home, worn 
out and ill, and that he was resting his 
head upon her bosom. Over and over 
again, with tiresome iteration, he kept 
entreating plaintively : "You are glad to 
see me ? You do truly forgive me, and 
love me ? " 

Nothing could have been sadder than 
to hear him. I reasoned that this cease 
less dwelling upon the sweets of a ten 
der welcome doubtless reflected the 
train of his thoughts during the jour 
ney down from the battle-field. He had 
f oreborne to once mention Daisy s name 
during the whole voyage, but he must 
have thought deeply, incessantly of her 
in all likelihood with a great soften 
ing of heart and yearning for her com 
passionate nursing. It was not in me 
to be unmoved by this. I declare that 
as I went painfully forward, with this 
strangely pathetic song of passion re 
peating itself in my ears, I got fairly 
away from the habit of mind in which 
my own love for Daisy existed, and felt 
myself only an agent in the w r orking 
out of some sombre and exalted ro 
mance. 

In Foxe s account of the English mar 
tyrs there are stories of men at the 
stake who, when a certain stage of the 
torture was reached, really forgot their 
anguish in the emotional ecstasy of the 
ideas born of that terrible moment. In 
a poor and imperfect fashion I ap 
proached that same strange state not 
far removed, in sober fact, from the de 
lirium of the man in the canoe. 

The shadows were lengthening in the 
woods, and the reddening blaze of the 
sun flared almost level in our eyes 
through the tree-trunks, when at last 
we had crossed the water-shed of the 
two creeks, and stood looking down into 
the gulf of which I have so often spoken 
heretofore. 

We rested the canoe upon a great 
rock in the mystic circle of ancient Ind 
ian fire worship, and leaned, tired and 
panting, against its side. My arm was 



giving me much pain, and what with 
insufficient food and feverish sleep, 
great immediate fatigue, and the vast 
nervous strain of these past six days, I 
was well-nigh swooning. 

"I fear I can go no further, Enoch," 
I groaned. "I can barely keep my feet 
as it is." 

The trapper himself was as close to 
utter exhaustion as one may be and have 
aught of spirit left, yet he tried to speak 
cheerily. 

"Come, come!" he said, "we nmstn t 
give out now, right here at the finish. 
Why it s only down, over that bridge, 
and up again and there we are ! " 

I smiled in a sickly way at him, and 
strove to nerve myself manfully for a 
final exertion. " Very well ! " I made 
answer. "Just a moment s more rest, 
and we ll at it again." 

While we still stood half reclining 
against the bowlder, looking with trep 
idation at the stiff ascent before us on 
the farther side of the gulf, the scene of 
the old quarrel of our youth suddenly 
came to my mind. 

" Do you see that spruce near the top, 
by the path the one hanging over the 
edge ? Five years ago I was going to 
fight this Philip Cross there, on that 
path. My little nigger Tulp ran be 
tween us, and he threw him head over 
heels to the bottom. The lad has never 
been himself since." 

"Pretty tolerable fall," remarked 
Enoch, glancing down the precipitous, 
brush-clad wall of rock. " But a nigger 
lands on his head, as a cat does on her 
feet, and it only scratches him where it 
would kill anybody else." 

We resumed our burden now, and 
made our way with it down the winding 
path to the bottom. Here I was fain to 
surrender once for all. 

"It is no use, Enoch ! " I said reso 
lutely. " I can t even try to climb up 
there with this load. You must wait 
here ; I will go ahead to Cairncross, 
prepare them for his coming, and send 
down some slaves to fetch him the rest 
of the way." 

The great square mansion reared be 
fore me a closed and inhospitable front. 
The shutters of all the windows were 
fastened. Since the last rain no wheels 



88 



IN THE GALLEY. 



had passed over the carriage-way. For 
all the signs of life visible, Cairncross 
might have been uninhabited a twelve 
month. 

It was only when I pushed my way 
around to the rear of the house, within 
view of the stables and slave quarters, 
that I learned the place had not been 
abandoned. Half a dozen niggers, 
dressed in their holiday, church-going 
raiment, were squatting in a close circle 
on the grass, intent upon the progress 
of some game. Their interest in this 
was so deep that I had drawn near to 
them, and called a second time, before 
they became aware of my presence. 

They looked for a minute at me in a 
perplexed way my mud-baked clothes, 
unshaven face, and general unkempt 
condition evidently rendering me a 
stranger in their eyes. Then one of 
them screamed : " Golly ! Mass Douw s 
ghost ! " and the nimble cowards were 
on their feet and scampering like scared 
rabbits to the orchard, or into the base 
ment of the great house. 

So I was supposed to be dead ! Curi 
ously enough, it had not occurred to 
me before that this would be the nat 
ural explanation of my failure to return 
with the others. The idea now gave 
me a queer quaking sensation about the 
heart, and I stood stupidly staring at 
the back balcony of the house, with my 
mind in a whirl of confused thoughts. 
It seemed almost as if I had come back 
from the grave. 

While I still stood, faint and bewil 
dered, trying to regain control of my 
ideas, the door opened, and a white- 
faced lady, robed all in black, came 
swiftly out upon the porch. It was 
Daisy and she was gazing at me with 
distended eyes and parted lips, and 
clinging to the carved balustrade for 
support. 

As in a dream I heard her cry of rec 
ognition, and knew that she was gliding 
toward me. Then I was on my knees at 
her feet, burying my face in the folds of 
her dress, and moaning incoherent noth 
ings from sheer exhaustion and rapture. 

When at last I could stand up, and 
felt myself coming back to something 
like self-possession, a score of eager 
questions and as many outbursts of 
deep thanksgiving were in my ears all 



from her sweet voice. And I had tongue 
for none of them, but only looked into 
her dear face, and patted her hands 
between mine, and trembled like a leaf 
with excitement. So much was there to 
say, the sum of it beggared language. 

When finally we did talk, I was seated 
in a great chair one of the slaves had 
brought upon the sward, and wine had 
been fetched me, and my dear girl bent 
gently over me from behind, softly rest 
ing my head against her waist, her hands 
upon my arms. 

"You shall not look me in the face 
again," she said, with ah ! such compas 
sionate tender playfulness "until I 
have been told. How did you escape ? 
Were you a prisoner ? W T ere you hurt ? " 
and oh, a host of other things. 

Suddenly the sky seemed to be cov 
ered with blackness, and the joy in my 
heart died out as by the stroke of death. 
I had remembered something. My 
parched and twitching lips did their best 
to refuse to form the words : 

" I have brought Philip home. He is 
sorely wounded. Send the slaves to 
bring him from the gulf." 

After a long silence, I heard Daisy s 
voice, clear and without a tremor, call 
out to the blacks that their master had 
been brought as far as the gulf beyond, 
and needed assistance. They started 
off helter-skelter at this, with many ex 
clamations of great surprise, a bent and 
misshapen figure dragging itself with a 
grotesque limping gait at their tail. 

I rose from my chair, now in some 
measure restored to calmness and cold 
resolution. In mercy I had been given 
a brief time of blind happiness of bliss 
without the alloy of a single thought. 
Now I must be a man, and walk erect, 
unflinching to the sacrifice. 

"Let us go and meet them. It is 
best," I said. 

The poor girl raised her eyes to mine, 
and their startled, troubled gaze went 
to my heart. There must have been 
prodigious effort in the self-command 
of her tone to the slaves, for her voice 
broke down utterly now, as she faltered, 

You have brought him home ! 
For what purpose ? How will this all 
end ? It terrifies me ! " 

We had by tacit consent begun to 
walk down the path toward the road.. It 



IN THE YALLEY. 



89 



was almost twilight. I remember still 
how the swallows wheeled swiftly in the 
air about the eaves, and how their twit 
tering and darting seemed to confuse 
and tangle my thoughts. 

The situation was too sad for silence. 
I felt the necessity of talking, of uttering 
something which might, at least, make 
pretence of occupying these wretched 
minutes until I should say : 

"This is vour husband and fare 
well ! " 

" It was clear enough to me," I said. 
"My duty was plain. I would have 
been a murderer had I left him there to 
die. It was very strange about my feel 
ings. Up to a certain moment they 
were all bitter and merciless toward 
him. So many better men than he were 
dead about me, it seemed little enough 
that his life should go to help avenge 
them. Yet when the moment came 
why, I could not suffer it. Not that my 
heart relented ; no, I was still full of 
rage against him. But none the less it 
was my duty to save his life." 

" And to bring him home to me" She 
spoke musingly, completing my sen 
tence. 

" Why, Daisy, would you have had it 
otherwise ? Could I have left him there 
to die alone, helpless in the swamp ? " 

" I have not said you were not right, 
Douw," she answered with saddened 
slowness. " But I am trying to think. 
It is so hard to realize coming like 
this ! I was told you were both dead. 
His name was reported in their camp, 
yours among our people. And now you 
are both here and it is all so strange, 
so startling and what is right seems 
so mingled and bound up with what is 
cruel and painful Oh ! I cannot think ! 
What will come of it ? How will it all 
end?" 

"We must not ask how it will end!" 
I made answer, with lofty decision. 
" That is not our affair. We can but 
do our duty what seems clearly right 
and bear results as they come. There 
is no other way. You ought to see 
this." 

"Yes, I ought to see it," she said, 
slowly and in a low distressed voice. 

As she spoke there rose in my mind a 
sudden consciousness that perhaps my 
wisdom was at fault. How was it that I 



coarse-fibred male animal, returned 
from slaughter, even now with the blood 
of fellow-creatures on my hands should 
be discoursing of duty and of good and 
bad to this pure and gentle and sweet- 
souled woman ? What was my title to 
do this ? to rebuke her for not seeing 
the right ? Had I been in truth gener 
ous ? Bather had I not, in the purely 
selfish desire to win my own self-appro 
bation, brought pain and perplexity 
down upon the head of this poor wom 
an? I had thought much of my own 
goodness my own strength of purpose 
and self-sacrifice and fidelity to duty. 
Had I given so much as a mental glance 
at the effect of my acts upon the one 
whom, of all others, I should have first 
guarded from trouble and grief ? 

My tongue was tied. Perhaps I had 
been all wrong. Perhaps I should not 
have brought back to her the man whose 
folly and obstinacy had so well-nigh 
wrecked her life. I could no longer be 
sure. I kept silence, feeling indirectly 
now that her woman s instinct would 
be truer and better than my logic. She 
was thinking ; she would find the real 
right and wrong. 

Ah, no ! To this day we are not set 
tled in our minds, we two old people, as 
to the exact balance betweon duty and 
common-sense in that strange question 
of our far-away youth. 

There broke upon our ears, of a sud 
den, as we neared the wooded crest of 
the gulf, a weird and piercing scream 
an unnatural and repellent yell like a 
hyena s horrid hooting ! It rose with 
terrible distinctness from the thicket 
close before us. As its echoes returned 
we heard confused sounds of other 
voices, excited and vibrant. 

Daisy clutched my arm, and began 
hurrying me forward, impelled by some 
formless fear of she knew not what. 

"It is Tulp !" she murmured, as we 
went breathlessly on. " Oh, I should 
have kept him back ! Whv did I not 
think of it ! " 

" What about Tulp ? " I asked, with 
difficulty keeping beside her in the nar 
row path. " I had no thought of him. 
I did not see him. He was not among 
the others, was he ? " 

" He has gone mad ! " 

"What Tulp, poor boy? Oh, not 



90 



IN THE GALLEY. 



as bad as that, surely ! He has been 
strange and slow of wit for years, 
but " 

" Nay, the tidings of your death 
you know I told you we heard that you 
were dead drove him into perfect mad 
ness. I doubt he knew you when you 
came. Only yesterday we spoke of con 
fining him but poor old Father pleaded 
not. When you see Tulp, you shall de 
cide. Oh! What has happened? Who 
is this man ? " 

In the path before us, some yards 
away, appeared the tall, gaunt form of 
Enoch, advancing slowly. In the dusk 
of the wooded shades behind him hud 
dled the group of slaves. They bore 
nothing in their hands. Where was 
the canoe? They seemed affrighted or 
oppressed by something out of the com 
mon and Enoch, too, wore a strange 
air. What could it mean ? 

When Enoch saw us he lifted his 
hand in a warning gesture. 

" Have her go back ! " he called out, 
with brusque sharpness. 

"Will you walk back a little?" I 
asked her. "There is something here 
we do not understand. I will join you 
in a moment." 

" For God r sake, what is it, Enoch ? " 
I demanded, as I confronted him. " Tell 
me quick ! " 

" Well, we ve had our five days tussle 
for nothing, and you re minus a nigger. 
That s about what it comes to." 

" Speak out, can t you ! Is he dead ? 
What was the yell we heard ? " 

" It was all done like a flash of light 
ning. We were coining up the side 
nighest us here we had got just where 
that spruce, you know, hangs over 
when all at once that hump-backed nig 
ger of yours raised a scream like a paint 
er, and flung himself head first against 
the canoe. Over it went, and he with it, 
rip, smash, plumb to the bottom ! " 

The negroes broke forth in a babel of 
mournful cries at this, and clustered 
about us. I grew sick and faint under 
this shock of fresh horrors, and was fain 
to lean on Enoch s arm, as I turned to 
walk back to where I had left Daisy. 
She was not visible as we approached, 
and I closed my eyes in abject terror of 
some further tragedy. 

Thank God, she had only swooned 



and lay mercifully senseless in the tall 
grass, her waxen face upturned in the 
twilight. 



CHAPTEK XXXVH. 

THE PEACEFUL ENDING OF IT ALL. 

IN the general paralysis of suffering 
and despair which rested now upon the 
Valley, the terrible double tragedy of 
the gulf passed almost unnoted. Women 
everywhere were mourning for the hus 
bands, sons, lovers who would never re 
turn. Fathers strove in vain to look 
dry-eyed at familiar places which should 
know the brave lads true boys of theirs 
no more. The play and prattle of 
children were hushed in a hundred 
homes where some honest farmer s life, 
struck fiercely at by savage or Tory, 
still hung in the dread balance. Each 
day from some house issued forth the 
procession of death, until all our little 
churchyards along the winding river 
had more new graves than old not to 
speak of that grim, unconsecrated God s- 
acre in the forest pass, more cruel still 
to think upon. And with all this to 
bear, there was no assurance that the 
morrow might not bring the torch and 
tomahawk of invasion to our very doors. 

So our own strange tragedy had, as I 
have said, scant attention. People list 
ened to the recital, and made answer : 
" Both dead at the foot of the cliff, eh ? 
Have you heard how William Seeber is 
to-day ? " or, " Is it true that Herkimer s 
leg must be cut off ? " 

In those first few days there was little 
enough heart to measure or boast of the 
grandeur of the fight our simple Valley 
farmers had waged, there in the am 
bushed ravine of Oriskany. Still less 
was there at hand information by the 
light of which the results of that battle 
could be estimated. Nothing was known, 
at the time of which I write, save that 
there had been hideous slaughter, and 
that the invaders had foreborne to im 
mediately follow our shattered forces 
down the Valley. It was not until much 
later until definite news came, not only 
of St. Leger s flight back to Canada, but 
of the capture of the whole British army 
at Saratoga, that the men of the Mohawk 



IN THE VALLEY. 



91 



began to comprehend what they had 
really done. 

To my way of thinking, they have ever 
since been unduly modest about this 
truly historic achievement. As I wrote 
long ago, we of New York have chosen 
to make money, and to allow our neigh 
bors to make histories. Thus it hap 
pens that the great decisive struggle of 
the whole long war for Independence 
the conflict which in fact made America 
free is suffered to pass into the records 
as a mere frontier skirmish. Yet, if one 
will but think, it is as clear as daylight 
that Oriskany was the turning-point of 
the war. The Palatines, who had been 
originaUy colonized on the upper Mo 
hawk by the English to serve as a shield 
against savagery for their own Atlantic 
settlements, reared a barrier of their 
own flesh and bones, there at Oriskany, 
over which St. Leger and Johnson strove 
in vain to pass. That failure settled ev 
erything. The essential feature of Bur- 
goyne s plan had been that this force, 
which we so roughly stopped and turned 
back in the forest defile, should victori 
ously sweep down our Y ane J> raising 
the Tory gentry as they progressed, and 
join him at Albany. If that had been 
done, he would have held the whole 
Hudson, separating the rest of the Colo 
nies from New England, and having it in 
his power to punish and subdue, first the 
Yankees, then the others at his leisure. 

Oriskany prevented this ! Coming as 
it did, at the darkest hour of Washing 
ton s trials and the Colonies despond 
ency, it altered the face of things as 
gloriously as does the southern sun, ris 
ing swiftly upon the heels of night. 
Burgoyne s expected allies never reached 
him ; he was compelled in consequence 
to surrender and from that day there 
was no doubt who would in the long 
run triumph. 

Therefore, I say, all honor and glory 
to the rude, unlettered, great - souled 
yeomen of the Mohawk Valley, who 
braved death in the wildwood gulch at 
Oriskany that Congress and the free 
Colonies might live ! 

But, in these first few days, be it re 
peated, nobody talked or thought much 
of glory. There were too many dead 
left behind too many maimed and 
wounded brought home to leave much 



room for patriotic meditations around 
the saddened hearth-stones. And per 
sonal grief was everywhere too deep and 
general to make it possible that men 
should care much about the strange oc 
currence by which Philip and Tulp lost 
their lives together in the gulf. 

I went on the following day to my 
mother, and she and my sister Margaret 
returned with me to Cairncross, to re 
lieve from smaller cares, as much as 
might be, our poor dear girl. All was 
done to shield both her and the stricken 
old gentleman, our common second fa 
ther, from contact with material remind 
ers of the shock that had fallen upon 
us, and as soon as possible afterward 
they were both taken to Albany, out of 
reach of the scene s sad suggestions. 

From the gulf s bottom, where Death 
had dealt his double stroke, the sol 
dier s remains were borne one way, to 
his mansion ; the slave s the other, to 
his old home at The Cedars. Between 
their graves the turbulent stream still 
dashes, the deep ravine still yawns. 
For years I could not visit the spot 
without hearing, in and above the cease 
less shouting of the waters, poor mad 
Tulp s awful death-scream. 

During the month immediately fol 
lowing the event, my time was closely 
engaged in public work. It was my 
melancholy duty to go up to the Falls, 
to represent General Schuyler and Con 
gress at the funeral of brave old Briga 
dier Nicholas Herkimer, who succumbed 
to the effects of an unskilful amputation 
ten days after the battle. A few days 
later I went with Arnold and his reliev 
ing force up the Valley, saw the siege 
raised and the flood of invasion rolled 
back, and had the delight of grasping 
Peter Gansevoort, the stout commander 
of the long-beleaguered garrison, once 
more by the hand. On my return I had 
barely "time to lease The Cedars to a 
good tenant, and put in train the finally 
successful efforts to save Cairncross 
from confiscation, when I was summoned 
to Albany to attend upon my chief. It 
was none too soon, for my old wounds 
had broken out again, under the expo 
sure and travail of the trying battle 
week, and I was more fit for a hospital 
than for the saddle. 



IN THE GALLEY. 



I found the kindliest of nursing and 
care in my old quarters in the Schuyler 
mansion. It was there, one morning 
in January of the new year, 1778, that 
a quiet wedding breakfast was cele 
brated for Daisy and me and neither 
words nor wishes could have been more 
tender had we been truly the children 
of the great man, Philip Schuyler, and 
his good dame. The exact date of this 
ceremony does not matter let it be 
kept sacred within the knowledge of us 
two old people, who look back still to 
it as to the sunrise of a new long day, 
peaceful, serene, and almost cloudless 
and not less happy even now because 
the ashen shadows of twilight begin 
gently to gather over it. 

Though the war had still the greater 
half of its course to run, my part there 
after in it was far removed from camp 
and field. No opportunity came to me 
to see fighting again, or to rise beyond 
my major s estate. Yet I was of as 
much service, perhaps, as though I had 
been out in the thick of the conflict ; 
certainly Daisy was happier to have it 
so. 

Twice during the year 1780 did we 
suffer grievous material loss at the 
hands of the raiding parties which ma 
lignant Sir John Johnson piloted into 
the Valley of his birth. In one of these 
the Cairncross mansion was rifled and 
burned, and the tenants despoiled and 
driven into the woods. This meant a 
considerable monetary damage to us 
yet our memories of the place were all 
so sad that its demolition seemed al 
most a relief, particularly as Enoch, to 
whom we had presented a freehold of 
the wilder part of the grant, that near 
est the Sacondaga, miraculously escaped 
molestation. 

But it was a genuine affliction when, 
later in the year, Sir John personally 
superintended the burning down of the 
dear old Cedars the home of our youth. 
If I were able to forgive him all other 
harm he has wrought, alike to me and 
to his neighbors, this would still remain 
obstinately to steel my heart against 
him, for he knew that we had been good 
to his wife, and that we loved the place 
better than any other on earth. We 
were very melancholy over this for a 
long time, and, to the end of his placid 



days of second childhood passed with 
us, we never allowed Mr. Stewart to 
learn of it. But even here there was 
the recompense that the ruffians, though 
they crossed the river and frightened 
the women into running for safety to the 
woods, did not pursue them, and thus 
my mother and sisters, along with Mrs. 
Romeyn and others, escaped. Alas ! 
that the Tory brutes could not also 
have forborne to slay on his own door 
step my godfather, honest old Douw 
Fonda ! 

There was still another raid upon the 
Valley the ensuing year, but it touched us 
only in that it brought news of the vio 
lent death of Walter Butler, slain on the 
bank of the East Canada Creek by the 
Oneida chief Skenandoah. Both Daisy 
and I had known him from childhood, 
and had in the old times been fond of 
him. Yet there had been so much in 
nocent blood upon those delicate hands 
of his, before they clutched the gravel 
on the lonely forest stream s edge in 
their death-grasp, that we could scarce 
ly wish him alive again. 

Our first boy was born about this time 

a dark-skinned, brawny man-child 
whom it seemed the most natural thing 
in the world to christen Douw. He 
bears the name still, and on the whole, 
though he has forgotten all the Dutch 
I taught him, bears it creditably. 

In the mid - autumn of the next year 

it was in fact the very day on which 
the glorious news of Yorktown reached 
Albany a second little boy was born. 
He was a fair-haired slender creature, 
differing from the other as sunshine dif 
fers from thunder-clouds. He had noth 
ing like the other s breadth of shoulders 
or strength of lung and limb, and we 
petted him accordingly, as is the wont 
of parents. 

When the question of his name came 
up, I sat, I remember, by his mother s 
bedside, holding her hand in mine, and 
we both looked down upon the tiny, fair 
babe nestled upon her arm. 

" Ought we not to call him for the 
dear old father give him the two names 
Thomas and Stewart ? " I asked. 

Daisy stroked the child s hair gently, 
and looked with tender melancholy into 
my eyes. 

" I have been thinking," she mur- 



mam 



-^-aS^-.^ .:i 






VOL. VIII. 8 



94 



IN THE GALLEY. 



mured, " thinking often of late it is 
all so far behind us now, and time has 
passed so sweetly and softened so much 
our memories of past trouble and of the 
the dead I have been thinking, dear, 
that it would be a comfort to have the 
lad called Philip." 

I sat for a long time thus by her side, 
and we talked more freely than we had 
ever done before, of him who lay buried 
by the ruined walls of Cairncross. Time 
had indeed softened much. We spoke 
of him now with gentle sorrow as of a 
friend whose life had left somewhat to 
be desired, yet whose death had given 
room for naught but pity. He had been 
handsome and fearless and wilful and 
unfortunate ; our minds were closed 
against any harsher word. And it came 
about that when it was time for me to 
leave the room, and I bent over to kiss 
lightly the sleeping infant, I was glad in 
my heart that he was to be called Philip. 
Thus he was called, and though the Gen 
eral was his godfather at the old Dutch 
church, we did not conceal from him 
that the Philip for whom the name was 
given was another. It was easily with 
in Schuyler s kindly nature to compre 
hend the feelings which prompted us, 
and I often fancied he was even the 
fonder of the child because of the link 
formed by his name with his parents 
time of grief and tragic romance. 

In truth we all made much of this 
light-haired, beautiful, imperious little 
boy, who from the beginning quite threw 
into the shade his elder and slower 
brother, the dusky-skinned and patient 
Douw. Old Mr. Stewart, in particular, 
became dotingly attached to the younger 
lad, and scarce could bear to have him 
out of sight the whole day long. It was 
a pretty spectacle indeed one which 
makes my old heart yearn in memory, 
even now to see the simple, soft-man 
nered, childish patriarch gravely obey 
ing the whims and freaks of the boy, 
and finding the chief delight of his wan 
ing life in being thus commanded. Some 



times, to be sure, my heart smote me with 
the fear that poor quiet Master Douw 
felt keenly underneath his calm exterior 
this preference, and often, too, I grew 
nervous lest our fondness was spoiling 
the younger child. But it was not in 
us to resist him. 

The little Philip died suddenly, in his 
sixth year, and within the month Mr. 
Stewart followed him. Great and over 
powering as w T as our grief, it seemed al 
most perfunctory beside the heart-break 
ing anguish of the old man. He literally 
staggered and died under the blow. 

There is no story in the rest of my 
life. The years have flowed on as peace 
fully, as free from tempest or excitement, 
as the sluggish waters of a Delft canal. 
No calamity has since come upon us ; 
no great trial or large advancement has 
stirred the current of our pleasant exist 
ence. Having always a sufficient hold 
upon the present, with means to live in 
comfort, and tastes not leading into 
venturesome ways for satisfaction, it has 
come to be to us, in our old age, a deep 
delight to look backward together. We 
seem now to have walked from the out 
set hand in hand. The joys of our child 
hood and youth spent under one roof 
the dear smoky, raftered roof, where 
hung old Dame Kronk s onions and corn, 
and perfumed herbs are very near to us. 
There comes between this scene of sun 
light and the not less peaceful radiance 
of our later life, it is true, the shadow 
for a time of a dark curtain. Yet so 
good and generous a thing is memory 
even this interruption appears now to 
have been but of a momentary kind, and 
has for us no harrowing side. As 1 
wrote out the story, page by page, it 
seemed to both of us that all these 
trials, these tears, these bitter feuds and 
fights, must have happened to others, 
not to us so swallowed up in hap 
piness are the griefs of those young 
years, and so free are our hearts from 
scars. 



THE END. 




THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 

By Robert Louis Stevenson. 

At my departure from the island of Apemama, for which you will look in vain in most at 
lases, the King and I agreed, since we both set up to be in the poetical way, that we should cele 
brate our separation in verse. Whether or not his Majesty has been true to his bargain, the lag 
gard posts of the Pacific may perhaps inform me in six months, perhaps not before a year. The 
following lines represent my part of the contract, and it is hoped, by their pictures of strange 
manners they may entertain a civilized audience. Nothing throughout has been invented or 
exaggerated ; the lady herein referred to as the author s muse has confined herself to stringing 
into rhyme facts and legends that I saw or heard during two months residence upon the island. 

R. L. S. 

Envoy. 

LET us, who part like brothers, part like bards ; 
And you in your tongue and measure, I in mine, 
Our now division duly solemnize. 
Unlike the strains, and yet the theme is one : 
The strains unlike, and how unlike their fate ! 
You to the blinding palace-yard shall call 
The prefect of the singers, and to him, 
Listing devout, your valedictory verse 
Deliver ; he, his attribute fulfilled, 




BJL Jl 



THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 97 

To the island chorus hand your measures on, 
Wed now with harmony : So them, at last, 
Night after night, in the open hall of dance, 
Shall thirty matted men, to the clapped hand, 
Intone and bray and bark. Unfortunate ! 
Paper and print alone shall honor mine. 



The Song. 

Let now the King his ear arouse 
And toss the bosky ringlets from his brows, 

The while, our bond to implement, 
My muse relates and praises his descent. 



Bride of the shark, her valor first I sing 
Who on the lone seas quickened of a King. 
She, from the shore and puny homes of men, 
Beyond the climber s sea-discerning ken, 
Swam, led by omens ; and devoid of fear, 
Beheld her monstrous paramour draw near. 
She gazed ; all round her to the heavenly pale, 
The simple sea was void of isle or sail 
Sole overhead the unsparing sun was reared 
When the deep bubbled and the brute appeared. 
But she, secure in the decrees of fate, 
Made strong her bosom and received the mate ; 
And men declare, from that marine embrace 
Conceived the virtues of a stronger race. 

n. 

Her stern descendant next I praise, 

Survivor of a thousand frays : 

In the hall of tongues who ruled the throng ; 

Led and was trusted by the strong ; 

And when spears were in the wood, 

Like to a tower of vantage stood : 

Whom, not till seventy years had sped, 

Unscarred of breast, erect of head, 

Still light of step, still bright of look, 

The hunter, Death, had overtook. 

in. 

His sons, the brothers twain, I sing, 
Of whom the elder reigned a King. 
No Childeric he, yet much declined 
From his rude sire s imperious mind, 
VOL. VIII. 9 



98 THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 

Until his day came when he died, 

He lived, he reigned, he versified. 

But chiefly him I celebrate 

That was the pillar of the state ; 

Ruled, wise of word and bold of mien, 

The peaceful and the warlike scene ; 

And played alike the leader s part 

In lawful and unlawful art. 

His soldiers with emboldened ears 

Heard him laugh among the spears. 

He could deduce from age to age 

The web of island parentage ; 

Best lay the rhyme, best lead the dance, 

For any festal circumstance ; 

And fitly fashion oar and boat, 

A palace or an armor coat. 

None more availed than he to raise 

The strong, suffumigating blaze 

Or knot the wizard leaf : none more, 

Upon the untrod windward shore 

Of the isle, beside the beating main, 

To cure the sickly and constrain 

With muttered words and waving rods, 

The gibbering and the whistling gods. 

But he, though thus with hand and head, 

He ruled, commanded, charmed and led, 

And thus in virtue and in might 

Towered to contemporary sight 

Still in fraternal faith and love, 

Eemained below to reach above, 

Gave and obeyed the apt command, 

Pilot and vassal of the land. 



IV. 



My Tembinok from men like these 

Inherited his palaces, 

His right to rule, his powers of mind, 

His coco-islands sea-enshrined. 

Stern bearer of the sword and whip, 

A master passed in mastership, 

He learned, without the spur of need, 

To write, to cipher, and to read ; 

From all that touch on his prone shore 

Augments his treasury of lore, 

Eager in age as erst in youth 

To catch an art, to learn a truth, 

To paint on the internal page 

A clearer picture of the age. 



THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 99 

His age, you say ? But ah, not so ! 

In his lone isle of long ago, 

A royal Lady of Shalott, 

Sea-sundered, he beholds it not ; 

He only hears it far away. , 

The stress of equatorial day 

He suffers ; he records the while 

The vapid annals of the isle ; 

Slaves bring him praise of his renown, 

Or cackle of the palm-tree town ; 

The rarer ship and the rare boat 

He marks ; and only hears remote, 

Where thrones and fortunes rise and reel, 

The thunder of the turning wheel. 

V. 

For the unexpected tears he shed 
At my departing, may his lion head 

Not whiten, his revolving years 
No fresh occasion minister of tears ; 

At book or cards, at work or sport, 
Him may the breeze across the palace court 

Forever fan ; and swelling near 
Forever the loud song divert his ear. 



SCHOONER EQUATOR, AT SEA, 




I .-dx^J^^jymJ^ .^^ 

- * <* " V; " "" " " 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 

By Duffleld Osborne. 




k HE popularity of surf- 
bathing as a sport may 
be said to be of fairly re 
cent growth in this coun 
try. Although few per 
haps realize the fact, it is 
nevertheless true that 
most of the beaches 
where now the surf curls 
over net-works of life 
lines, and where the brown-faced bath 
ing-master lounges, lazy yet watchful, 
before hundreds of gayly clad pleasure- 
seekers, were solitudes but a few years 
since. The white-topped waves tum 
bled, one after another, unnoticed upon 
the gray shore, the sea-breeze played 
only with the rank grasses upon the 
dunes, while circling gull and tern 
screamed their confidential communica 
tions to each other without fear of being 
overheard by human eavesdroppers. 

Only on Saturdays, at the hour of full 
tide, did the scene change ; and then 
perhaps a farm-wagon or so rolled heav 
ily down to where the ripples lapped 
the sand ; a stout rope was drawn from 
its coil under the seats and tied firmly 
around the hub and axle ; a dilapidated 
fish-house lent itself for a change of 
garments, and finally, some bronzed ex- 
whaler, with his bulky strength robed 
in a flannel shirt and old trousers tied 
with ropes at waist and ankles, slipped 
his wrist through the hand-loop at the 
free end of the rope and dragged it out 
into the surf a sort of human anchor- 
buoy while women, children, and less 
sturdy manhood clung to its now tight 
ening, now slackening length, and sput 
tered and shrieked over their Saturday 
bath. 

But, passing at a bound from farm- 
wagon, hand-looped rope, and ex-whaler 
to the less picturesque, but more effec 
tual, appliances of to-day, the follow 
ing is by all odds the simplest and 
best. Two parallel ropes, firmly an 
chored, and so elevated from the shore 
as to lie along the surface of the water, 
are run out to two heavy log-buoys, also 



anchored, at a distance of seventy-five 
yards, more or less, according to the 
character of both beach and surf. Half 
way from the shore to the buoys these 
ropes should be connected by a trans 
verse line with cork-floats fastened at 
regular intervals the distances being 
such that the cork-line shall rest upon 
the water some yards beyond the point 
where the heaviest breakers comb. If 
placed closer in shore, it is likely 
to become a source of serious danger, 
for, diving beneath a heavy wave and 
coming up under, or perhaps being 
thrown with more or less force against, 
a taut rope or a rough cork-buoy, has 
been the occasion of many painful hurts, 
and serious injury can be very readily 
imagined. 

Regard being had to the above cau 
tion, this system of life-lines is really 
safer than much more elaborate contriv 
ances. Women, children, and the inex 
perienced in general should keep within 
the rectangle formed by the shore, the 
long ropes, and the cork-line ; and they 
would, moreover, do wisely to stay near 
that rope lying upon the side from which 
the surf may " set." Then, if swept off 
their feet, the chances are all in favor 
of their being carried within reach of 
some support which will keep them up 
until assistance can be had. It seems 
hardly necessary to say that any such 
complication of lines as is seen at some 
points of Coney Island, for instance, 
would be a danger rather than a safe 
guard in any surf heavy enough to 
" throw " a bather. 

A word as to bathing costumes may 
be of some service here. A man s suit 
should be of flannel, because that ma 
terial is both warm and light ; it should 
be made in one piece, sleeveless, reach 
ing just to the knee, belted in at the 
waist, and, above all, close-fitting. 

There are few, nowadays, who do not 
appreciate the privilege of playing with 
the Atlantic Ocean ; but perhaps there 
are fewer still who have ever taken the 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



101 



trouble to study the character and hu 
mors of their playmate for he is full of 
tricks, this same ocean, and his jests are 
sometimes sadly practical ; he is all life 
and good spirits the jolliest of jolly 
company when he is in the humor ; 
but he must be treated with tact, tact 
born of a knowledge of his ways and 
moods ; and, above all, his would-be 
friends must learn to recognize when 
he is really angry, and then they must 
leave him to rave or grumble alone un 
til boisterous good-nature resumes its 
sway. 

Watch and note the character of the 
surf and the formation of the beach for 
a few days ; the knowledge gained may 
be useful. Do you see that line of 
breakers a quarter of a mile away? 
There lies the bar, and to-day the surf 
is heavy enough to break upon it, though 
the depth there must be at least six feet. 
Sometimes it is shallower, and, if you 
are ambitious and foolish, you can 
wade and swim out there and meet the 
waves first-hand. It is not worth while 
to run the risk, though ; the seas will 
usually form again long before they 
reach the shore, and, if you are sensible, 
you can enjoy them fully as much here 
as if you had put several hundred yards 
between yourself and help in the always 
possible contingency of accident. 

No, it is not remarkably rough now ; 
but last week ! you should have been here 
then. There had been great tumults 
far out beyond that smoke you see float 
ing above the horizon, where some 
hidden steamer is ploughing her way 
through blue water; and the great 
seas rolled and tumbled upon the bar 
and broke there, but they had no time 
to form themselves again. Plunging 
onward under their own impulse and 
beaten out of shape by fiercely throng 
ing successors, they rushed in toward 
the shore, a seething turmoil of foam, 
sweeping the sand from one side and 
heaping it up on another all white 
above and gray below from bar to beach. 
Next week there may be scarce a ripple ; 
you would not know there was an outer 
bar, and the wavelets, as they lap the 
sand, will seem so placid that you can 
not conceive how they could ever have 
lost their temper. 

In spite of all its changes, however, 



the surf has sometimes local character 
istics as fixed as anything can be with 
which the fickle ocean has to do. For 
instance, on the Atlantic coast the storms 
are generally bred and nurtured in the 
east ; the milder weather is born of 
southern or western winds, and there 
fore it is that those who have spent much 
time upon the New Jersey beaches 
have probably noticed that during very 
heavy weather the waves, as a rule, roll 
straight upon the shore ; while when 
the surf is lighter it is apt to run di 
agonally, or, as they say, " sets " from 
the south. On the Long Island coast 
all this is reversed ; there, when the 
storm winds prevail, the " set " is strong 
from the east, and the foam and breakers 
race along the beach from Montauk 
toward the Metropolis ; while at other 
times the surf will usually run straight 
on. It is hardly necessary to say that a 
surf without " set " is far more agreeable 
and somewhat safer. A bather is not 
forced to fight constantly against the 
impulse that is drifting him down the 
beach and away from companions, ropes, 
and bathing-grounds. 

The strength and height of the waves 
depend mainly upon influences at work 
far out upon the ocean, but the beach, 
as shaped by its watery assailants, reacts 
upon them in turn. The finest surf will 
be found under the following conditions : 
First, let there be a storm well out at 
sea, sending the big rollers straight onto 
the beach, and then a sharp wind on 
shore for a few hours. The effect of 
this will be, in the first instance, to thin 
the waves, and he who is fortunate 
enough to make trial of them under 
such circumstances will find a high, 
clean-cut surf, each breaker of which 
combs over in even sequence, and yet 
without such weight or body of water 
as to seriously threaten his equilibrium. 
Should that same wind off-shore blow 
for a few hours longer, the tops of the 
waves will be cut off and the ocean be 
come too calm to be interesting. 

I speak of a " fine surf," but were each 
man asked what he understands by it 
or by the term "good bathing," his 
definition would probably be largely 
governed by his skill and ability to take 
care of himself. For instance, what 
would be highly satisfactory to a good 



102 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



surfman would be altogether too rough 
for those compelled by weakness, timid 
ity, or inexperience to stand near the 
shore and look on ; while what might 
be agreeable to them would be tame 
for him. The opinion of such as say, 
"Wasn t it splendid to-day ! Why, I swam 
way out to the bar," need not be con 
sidered. They don t enjoy surf -bathing ; 
it is only the swimming that they care for, 
and they would doubtless be even bet 
ter pleased at any point on Long Island 
Sound. But what I take to be, and 
what I mean by, " a good bathing-day," 
is one on which a man who understands 
himself can take the surf as it comes, 
either alone or " with convoy," and yet, 
when there is an ever-present excite 
ment in the knowledge that a second s 
carelessness may result in an overthrow 
of both his person and his pride. 

Turning now from the water to the 
beach itself we find its formation varies, 
from day to day and from year to year, 
almost as much as do the waves that 
are forever smiting it. It may deepen 
graduaUy or abruptly, and the shoaling 
of an abrupt beach is usually the result 
of some days heavy sea "setting" from 
one direction or the other, which cuts 
away the sand above low water-mark 
and spreads it out over the bottom. 
But that characteristic which at the 
same time varies and affects us most is 
the position and depth of what is known 
as the " ditch," that is, where, sometimes 
at a few feet, sometimes at several yards 
from the shore, will be found a sudden 
declivity caused by the continual pound 
ing of the surf along one line, and con 
sequently lying farther out in heavy 
weather, and conversely. 

As a source of danger this same 
" ditch " is often very material. Often 
a man ignorant of the surf, perhaps a 
poor swimmer or no swimmer at all, 
starts to wade out waist or breast deep. 
To his eyes there is no sign of peril ; 
one step more, and lo ! he is beyond his 
depth ; and that, too, just where the 
waves are pounding him down and the 
conditions most potent to deprive him 
of his much-needed presence of mind. 
Nor is this all ; he may not, of his own 
free will, take that last step which in 
volves him in all this difficulty, for it is 
at the edge of the " ditch " where the 



" under-tow " is strongest ; nay, more 
the very strength of the " under-tow " 
depends largely upon the depth of the 
ditch. 

Doubtless we have all heard a great 
deal about this " under-tow," as though 
it were some mysterious force working 
from the recesses of a treacherous ocean 
to draw unwary bathers to their doom. 
As a matter of fact its presence is 
obviously natural, and the explanation 
of it more than simple. As each wave 
rolls in and breaks upon the beach, the 
volume of water which it carries does 
not remain there and sink into the 
sand ; it flows back again, and, as the 
succeeding wave breaks over it, the 
receding one forms an under-current 
flowing outward of strength proportion 
ate to the body of water contained in 
each breaker, and, again, proportionate 
in a great measure to the depth of the 
ditch. Where this latter is an appreci 
able depression, it can be readily seen 
that the water of receding waves will 
flow in to it with similar effect to that of 
water going over a fall, and that a per 
son standing near is very likely to be 
drawn over with it, and thus, if the 
ditch is deep enough, carried out of his 
depth. This is all there is to the much- 
talked-of " under-tow " and the numer 
ous accidents laid to its account. 

It may be well to speak here of an 
other phenomenon not infrequently ob 
served. I do not recall ever seeing the 
name by which it is known in print, 
and, as the word is ignored by Webster, 
I shall invent my own spelling and write 
it " sea-poose." This term is loosely 
used on different parts of the coast, but 
the true significance of it is briefly this : 
There will sometimes come, at every 
bathing-ground, days when the ocean 
seems to lose its head and to act in a 
very capricious way. On such occasions 
it often happens that the beach is cut 
away at some one point, presumably 
where the sand happens to be softer and 
less capable of resisting the action of 
the water. There will then be found a 
little bay indenting the shore, perhaps 
ten feet, perhaps ten yards. The waves 
rolling into such a cove are deflected 
somewhat by its sides and "set "together 
at its head, so that two wings of a break 
er, so to speak, meet and, running 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



103 



straight out from the point of junction, 
form a sort of double " under-tow," 
which will, if the conditions that cause 
it continue, cut out along its course a 
depression or trench of varying depth 
and length. It can be readily under 
stood that such a trench tends to 
strengthen the current that causes it, 
and these two factors, acting and react 
ing upon each other, occasion what 
might be called an artificial "under 
tow " which is sometimes strong enough 
to carry an unwary bather some dis 
tance out, in a fashion that will cause 
him either to be glad he is, or to wish 
he were, within the rectangle of the life 
lines. 

I have sometimes heard old surfmen 
speak of what they call a " false poose," 
but I have never been able to find out 
just what was meant by the expression, 
much less its causes and character. I 
shall therefore leave the question for 
those who delight to delve into the 
mysteries of local nomenclature. 

And now, standing upon the dunes, 
our eyes have wandered over the expanse 
of ocean with a glance more critical and 
inquiring as it drew near the shore. 
The salt savor of the breeze is, at the 
same time, a tonic and an anodyne ; we 
are drowsy, but the sea yet draws us to 
itself with an irresistible impulse ; the 
waves are rolling straight in and break 
ing high and clean ; shall we plunge 
into their cool depths ; shall we combat 
their strength ; or ride them as they 
come galloping from the blue to the 
green, and from the green to the white, 
until at last they fall spent upon the gray 
sand of the beach ? Surely ! Who is 
there can stand by and resist such temp 
tation ! But wait ! Surf -bathing is not 
a solitary sport. See ! the beach is 
thronged with gay toilets and bright 
sunshades, and the water has already 
given place to many. Watch that couple 
as they run gracefully down to the 
shore ; they dash confidently out ; now 
they have almost reached the line where 
the waves are breaking ; he takes her 
hands, and they stand prepared to 
" jump " the breakers and then ! and 
then a big, foamy crest curls over them 
and falls with a roar ; and, as it rolls in, 
you think you see a foot reaching up 



pathetically out of its depth, and now a 
hand some yards away, until at last, from 
out the shallows of the spent wave two 
dazed and bedraggled shapes stagger to 
their feet and look, first for themselves, 
and then for each other. A broad smile 
runs along the line of pretty toilets, and 
the gay sunshades nod their apprecia 
tion. There stand some men, just where 
the breakers comb, and, as each wave 
succeeds its precursor and rises into a 
crest, you may see the half-dozen brown- 
armed figures shooting over, like so 
many porpoises, and plunging head 
foremost under the advancing hill of 
water. Look ! there come some big ones 
one, two, three of them ! The bathers 
see them too, and press out a few yards 




Fig.1. 

into deeper water ; and then the diving 
commences. It is sharp work this time ; 
the big ocean-coursers are running close 
upon each other s heels, and the heads 
scarcely emerge after the first before the 
second is curling directly above ; now 
they have passed, and each breathless 
bather looks around to see how the rest 
have fared three, four, five but where 
is the sixth ? A roar of laughter floats 
shoreward as a demoralized form is 
seen to gather itself up, almost upon 
the beach ; that last breaker of the trio 
struck too quickly for him ; he cannot 



104 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



tell you just how many somersaults he 
has turned since the ocean proceeded to 




Fig. 2. 

take him in hand, but he is sure that 
they numbered somewhere among the 
twenties. Yes, it is brisk sport, and we 
must " go in." 

But then, it does not look comforta 
ble, to be thrown ; nor will it please our 
conceit to so minister to the good-nat 
ured mirth of that gay company. It is 
pleasanter to be among the laughers 
and so we shall be. To that end a few 
hints will perhaps be found useful, and 
even though what I shall say may, when 
said, seem to be obvious enough, yet 
it is amazing how few people will, of 
themselves, perceive the obvious and 
utilize their percep 
tions. You, my scorn 
ful friend, who think 
you know it all ; you 
will go to Southamp 
ton next summer, and 
the spirit of prophe 
cy being upon me 
you will be thrown, 
ignominiously thrown, 
eight times inside of 
two weeks ; so, re 
member that much 
that is "obvious" is 
yet fairly occult after 
all, or at least might as 
well be, as far as prac 
tice is concerned. And 
now, to return to the 
ocean and to didactics. 



We shall assume, in the first place, 
that you are able to swim, and further, 
that you are not minded to follow the 
inglorious, yet really dangerous, example 
of those who wait for a calm interval, 
and then, rushing through the line of 
breakers, spend their time swimming 
out beyond. Well, then, take your place 
just where the seas comb. This point 
will vary somewhat with the height of 
the waves, but you will stand, for the 
most part, in water about waist deep 
(as shown in Fig. 1). Should a particu 
lar breaker look to be heavier than the 
preceding, remember that it will strike 
further out and that you must push for 
ward to meet it. Then, if you are where 
you should be, it will comb directly above 
your head. Wait until it reaches that 
point of its development, for if you act 
too soon or too late your chances of be 
ing thrown are greatly increased, and, 
with the white crest just curving over 
you, dive under the green wall of water 
that rises up in front. Dive just as you 
would from a low shore, only not quite 
so much downward say at an angle of 
twenty degrees off the horizontal (Figs. 
2 and 3) ; your object being to slip under 
the incoming volume of water, to get 
somewhat into the " under-tow," and yet 
to run no risk of running afoul of the 
bottom. The heavier the wave, the 
deeper will be the water in which you 
stand, and the deeper you can and 
should dive. If your antagonist be very 
big and strong, you will find it advisa- 




Fig. 3. 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



105 





The Saturday Bath in the Old Days. 



ble to strike out the instant you have 
plunged ; very much on the theory that, 
as a bicycle will stand when in motion 
and fah 1 the instant it stops, so a man 
can, by swimming under water, keep 
control of and balance himself much 
better against the peculiar vibratory 
motion which one experiences when 
under a big wave and surrounded by 
conflicting currents. Swimming will 
also tend to bring you to the surface 
again under full control, and, provided 
you have acted with judgment, you will 
find yourself, when the wave has passed, 
standing on about the line from which 
you plunged. 

A thing good to remember but dim- 
cult to explain the cause of, is that ex 
traordinarily heavy waves almost invari 
ably travel by threes ; that is, very often, 
when you have been standing at one 
spot and taking perhaps a dozen break 
ers, you will of a sudden see, rolling in 
from the bar, a hill of water and foam 
much higher and heavier than those 
that have gone before. Then be sure 
that there are two more of similar mag 
nitude close behind it and push forward 
as fast as you can. If it seems very 
heavy and you have time, you may try 
VOL. VIIL 10 



to get beyond the break and ride them 
in comfort, but if this is impossible, you 
must dive low, swim, come to the sur 
face promptly, dash the water from your 
eyes, and be ready for numbers two and 
three ; and when all have passed, if you 
are still in good shape, you will find 
some long draughts of air very agreeable. 

Sometimes it will happen that you 
cannot get far enough out in time to 
meet these big seas at the proper point, 
and then it is that your reputation as a 
surf -man will be in clanger, at least among 
those who judge by success alone. 
There is only one thing to do ; dive un 
der the foam as it boils toward you 
dive deep and swim hard. The wave 
and the " under-tow " will be here com 
mingled in a sort of whirlpool, and 
you will need all your strength and skill 
to keep " head-on." Suffer yourself to 
be twisted but a few inches from your 
course, and but doubtless you under 
stand. 

There is a rather amusing way of 
playing with the surf on days when it is 
fairly high, but thin and without much 
force. Instead of diving as the breaker 
commences to comb, throw yourself over 
backward and allow your feet to be car- 



106 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



riedup into its crest. Provided you have 
judged its strength accurately and given 
yourself just enough back somersault 
impetus, you will be turned completely 
over in the wave (Figs. 4 and 5), and 




Fig. 4. 

strike with it and upon your feet ; only 
be careful in picking out your plaything, 
and don t select one that will pound 
you into the sand, or perhaps refuse to 
regulate the number of somersaults ac 
cording to your wishes or intentions. 

Now, it is more than possible that, be 
ing a good swimmer, and having first 
made personal trial of both beach and 
surf, you may desire to offer your escort 
to well, to your sister ; and right here 
let me note a few preliminary cautions. 

Never attempt to take a woman into 
the surf where there is any reason for 
an experienced surfman to 
anticipate a sea which, unac 
companied, you would have 
any difficulty in meeting ; or 

When the water in the 
ditch is more than breast 



is more 
deep ; or 

When the " under-tow "or 
"set" is especially strong ; or 

When there is any irregu 
larity of the beach which 
might cause a " sea-poose " 
to form. 

You may also find it wise 
to observe the following : 

Never take a woman out 
side the life-lines, and never 
promise her, either ex 



pressly or by implication, that you will 
not let her hair get wet. Above all, 
impress it upon her that she must do 
exactly as you say, that a moment s hesi 
tation due to timidity or lack of confi 
dence, or, worse than all, anything like 
panic or an attempt to break from you 
and escape by flight, is likely to precip 
itate a disaster which, unpleasant and 
humiliating when met alone, is trebly so 
in company. 

And now, having read your lecture on 
the duty of obedience, etc., lead on. Of 
course, if the water deepens gradually 
and the surf is very light, you may go 
beyond the breakers, but in that event 
no skill is called for and no suggestions 
needed. 

There are several good ways of hold 
ing a woman in the surf, but the best 
and safest in every emergency is that 
shown in Fig. 6. You thus stand 
with your left and her right side toward 
the ocean, and as the wave rises before 
you, your companion should, at the 
word, spring from the sand while at the 
same moment you swing her around 
with all your force, and throw her back 
ward into the advancing breaker (Fig. 7). 
You will observe that your own feet are 
always firmly planted on the bottom, 
the left foot about twelve inches ad 
vanced, and your body and shoulders 
thrown forward, so as to obtain the best 
brace against the shock of the water. 
The question of preserving your equili 
brium is largely one of proper balancing, 
especially when, as is often the case, 
you are carried from your foothold and 




Fig, 5 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



107 



borne some yards toward the shore. 
Your companion s weight and impetus, 
as well as the position in which she 
strikes the wave that is, directly in front 
of you, all tend to make your anchorage 
more secure, or in case of losing it, your 
balance the easier to maintain. The 
body of the wave will, of course, pass 
completely over you (as shown in Fig. 
8). The instant it has so passed and 
your head emerges, clear your eyes, re 
gain your position (you will practically 
drop into it again), and if carried shore 
ward, press out to the proper point so 
as to be ready for the next. 

Should an exceptionally heavy sea 
roll in, endeavor to push forward to 
meet it as if you were alone, being very 
careful, however, not to get out of depth. 
Flight is almost always disastrous. If 
the sea strikes before you can reach it, 
there is nothing to do but bend your 
head and shoulders well forward, brace 
yourself as firmly as possible, and thus, 
presenting the least surface for the 
water to take hold of, and getting the 
full benefit of the "under-tow," swing 
your companion (who has also bent low 
and thrown herself forward) horizon 
tally under the broken wave (Fig. 9). 
If she has had much experience, it will 
be still better for you to dive together, 
side by side. 

Before dropping this branch of the 
subject I wiU call attention briefly to 
another way of carrying a woman 
through the surf. Let her stand di 
rectly in front of and facing you (as 
shown in Fig. 10). Standing thus, she 
springs and is pushed backward through 
the wave somewhat as in the former in 
stance (Fig. 11). The disadvantages of 
this method are, first : that you lose in 
impetus by pushing rather than swing 
ing your companion ; second, that she 
cannot herself see what is coming ; 
third, that neither is in as convenient a 
position to hurry forward to meet an 
exceptionally heavy wave ; and fourth, 
that you have not as good a hold in case 
a sea breaks before it reaches you, or 
any other emergency arises. 

In all that has been said, bear in mind 
that the cardinal secret of surf-bathing, 
in all contingencies, is proper balanc 
ing, and nothing but experience sec 
onding knowledge can teach you to 



measure forces and judge correctly to 
that end. 



So far the sea has been a good-natured 
though sometimes a rough playfellow 
never really irritable or vindictive ; but 
unfortunately this disposition cannot be 
counted upon. That there are dangers 




Fig. 6. 

attendant upon ocean-bathing, he who 
has been present when human life was 
being fought for can abundantly testify. 
To be sure, most of the ei accidents " are 
results of carelessness or ignorance ; but 
then the same may be said of accidents 
everywhere, and a short summary of 
the dangers peculiar to the surf may be 
of use. Some of these have been already 
indicated, as, for instance, dangers 
arising from the "under-tow." This 
by itself is not likely to trouble 
anyone except a very poor swimmer, 
and then only when the ditch is deep ; 
for the reason that the power of the 
" under-tow " is confined practically to 
within the line of breakers and cannot 
carry a bather any distance. In the 
case of a " sea-poose," however, it is 
different. I have seen a current of this 
character running out for many yards 
beyond a man s depth, and against which 



108 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 




Fig. 7. 

a strong swimmer would find it almost 
impossible to make headway. Fortu 
nately, such instances are rare, but he 
who may be thus entangled 
must remember, the moment 
he realizes his predicament, 
that by attempting to fight 
the current and swim directly 
toward the beach, he, as a gen 
eral thing, only wastes his 
strength. He must strike out 
for a few yards along shore, 
and a slight effort so directed 
will soon take him out of the 
dangerous influence. 

Again, the "under-tow" 
may help to a disaster in the 
following way : As a rule, there 
is no real danger in being 
thrown by a breaker, but 
there have been occasions 
when an inexperienced or ex 
hausted bather has been struck 
in such a way, or thrown with 
such force, as to be more or 
less injured or dazed; and 
then, before he could regain 
control of himself, and while 
prostrate in the water, he has 
been drawn back by the 
"under-tow, "rolled under and 



pounded down by each suc 
ceeding breaker, and finally 
even drowned. 

The great majority, however, 
of drowning accidents on the 
sea - board that is, of those 
which can be even indirectly 
attributed to the surf take 
place under the following cir 
cumstances : Some strong 
swimmer comes to the beach, 
entirely ignorant of the strength 
and ways of the ocean ; he 
sneers at the warnings of surf- 
men, and, choosing a calm in 
terval, dashes through the line 
of breakers and amuses himself 
by swimming out ; ropes and 
log-buoys are entirely beneath 
his notice. Finally he begins 
to feel tired ; the chop of the 
seas splashes up into his nose 
and eyes ; it is not so easy as 
swimming in still water, and 
he concludes to come in. Now, 
the chances are that he will do 
this without any serious difficulty, even 
though he does not quite understand 
how to swim high, with long strokes, 




Fig. 8. 



1,1 










110 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 

X 




Fig. 9. 



when on the inner slope and summit of 
each wave, until it fairly shoots him to 
ward the shore ; and then to rest and 
hold his own while on the outer slope 
and in the trough. There is always, 
however, just a possibility, and the 
stronger the surf the more possible is it 
that the inexperienced swimmer can not 
come through the line of breakers when 
and where he wants to ; he must wait 
their pleasure, and, if he has measured 
his strength closely and the delay be 
long, it is easy to see how that, in trying 
to pass, he may be thrown down into 
the " under-tow " and lack sufficient 
strength to extricate himself. 

Next to caution and life-lines, surf 
dangers are best provided against by a 
long rope with a slip-noose at the end, 
either wound on a portable reel or 
coiled and placed at the lowest point of 
the beach. Then a rescuer, throwing 
the noose around his waist, can make 
his way to a drowning man, and both 
can be drawn in by those on shore. In 
default of some such contrivance, the 
next best thing is for all the able-bodied 
to form a chain of hands ; for, let me 
say, there is nothing more difficult, even 
for a strong swimmer and expert surf- 
man, than bringing a drowning person 
in through or out of a line of heavy 
breakers. 



I recall an incident which happened 
some years since at Bridgehampton, 
Long Island, and which illustrates the 
difficulty of which I speak. A young 
clergyman had arrived only the day be- 




Fig. 10. 






SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



Ill 



fore ; he was unable to swim a stroke ; was evident that a change of tactics was 

and his first exploit was to wade out necessary ; and, fortunately, at that mo- 

into the ocean, entirely ignorant of the ment a great ridge of water was seen 

fact that the ditch was that day both sweeping in. Thought came quickly 

abrupt and deep or perhaps even that then, and the word: "Let it throw us!" 




Fig. 11. 



there was such a thing as a ditch and 
that a single step would take him from 
a depth of four feet and safety, into 
one of six and considerable danger. 
Whether he took the step, or the "un 
der- tow" took it for him, is not ma 
terial, but the bathing-master and one 
other saw the trouble, dashed in, and, 
reaching the drowning man, were able to 
keep his head above water ; but, what 
with this and fighting the waves, they 
could not seem to make an inch shore 
ward. There were not many on the beach 
at the time, and only four or five men 
who could be of any use. A chain of 
hands was promptly formed, but it was 
not long enough to bring the inside man 
into water less than waist deep, and the 
" under-tow," pouring into the big ditch, 
sucked with all its might. So they 
swung backward and forward, now gain 
ing, now losing ground, and meanwhile 
the bathing-master and those nearest 
him, being out of depth, were fast becom 
ing exhausted. All, so far, had instinc 
tively tried to fight the waves, but it 



was passed down the line ; then it struck, 
and, for a moment, there was a confused 
tangle of legs and arms and heads and 
bodies swirled around, over, under, and 
against each other. Those closer in 
shore were hurled upon the beach, 
but the chain held together long enough 
to drag the others into a place of 
safety. Though there were no casual 
ties of any consequence, I am very cer 
tain that each link of that chain will 
not soon forget the experience and will 
appreciate the truth of my last state 
ment. 

And now, let me try to temper all this 
by saying that the dangers of surf -bathing 
are, in reality, much less than those that 
beset still-water swimming, where one 
is usually out of his depth and with very 
little chance of escape in case of cramp 
or exhaustion. Only make friends with 
the ocean, learn its ways, study its moods 
a little, and humor it, while you keep 
careful watch against any sudden ebulli 
tion of passion. Those who stand aloof 
can never realize the pleasure and ex- 



112 



IN GLAD WEATHER. 



citement of the sport they forego, nor 
shall they know the profound satisfac 
tion born of successfully combating a 



trio of big rollers, which have tossed 
companions and rivals in confusion on 
the beach. 




IN GLAD WEATHER. 



By Charles B. Going. 

I DO not know what skies there were, 

Nor if the wind was high or low ; 
I think I heard the branches stir 

A little, when we turned to go : 
I think I saw the grasses sway 

As if they tried to kiss your feet 
And yet, it seems like yesterday, 

That day together, sweet ! 

I think it must have been in May ; 

I think the sunlight must have shone 
I know a scent of springtime lay 

Across the fields : we were alone. 
We went together, you and I ; 

How could I look beyond your eyes ? 
If you were only standing by 

I did not miss the skies ! 



I could not tell if evening glowed, 

Or noonday heat lay white and still 
Beyond the shadows of the road : 

I only watched your face, until 
I knew it was the gladdest day, 

The sweetest day that summer knew 
The time when we two stole away 

And I saw only you ! 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 

By George Howe, M.D. 




WAS a medical stu 
dent in New Orleans, 
La., and the course 
of lectures for the 
season of 1858-59 
had just closed. My 
name, with others, 
had been submitted 
to the administrators 
of the Charity Hospi 
tal for appointment 
as resident stu 
dent, a certain 
number being ap 
pointed annually, 
and the announce 
ment of the names 
of the fortunate 
few was daily ex 
pected. Each morning, I met at the 
hospital gates our late professors, who 
were visiting physicians and surgeons to 
the hospital, and with other students 
made the round of the different wards, 
each according to his special taste. 

At nine o clock on the morning of 
April 26th, while I was awaiting the usual 
arrivals at the gates, one of the pro 
fessors, Dr. Howard Smith, drove up in 
his buggy, and without replying to my 
salutation, said : " George, how would 
you like to go to the coast of Africa ? " 
The doctor was a very pleasant gentle 
man, and a great favorite among the 
students, and, believing him to be in a 
very pleasant mood, I replied : " First 
rate, (doctor." " How soon can you get 
ready ? " "I am ready now." He saw 
from my perplexed air that, although I 
thought him jesting, I did not under 
stand or see the point. "I am seri 
ously in earnest, George ; would you 
like to go ? " " Yes, sir." " When can 
you be ready ? " " As soon as I can go 
to my lodgings and pack up." " Well, 
VOL. VIII. ll 



then, come with me ; " and, jumping 
into the buggy with him, I was hurried 
to the office of the McDonogh Com 
missioners, representing Baltimore and 
New Orleans. 

En route, the doctor informed me 
that John McDonogh had died in 1850, 
possessed of valuable real estate which 
he had bequeathed to the cities of New 
Orleans and Baltimore for educational 
purposes ; he had also a number of slaves, 
who were given their freedom condi 
tioned upon their emigration to Li 
beria, after a certain period of years. 
That time had elapsed and arrange 
ments were made for their transporta 
tion. At the last moment it was con 
cluded to send a medical officer with 
them, and, said the doctor, " That 
selection having been requested of me, 
you are ruy choice, if you will go." 

My engagement was soon made with 
the commissioners, to render the negroes 
such professional and other aid as would 
be necessary on the voyage. I learned 
further that all the negroes old enough 
to work had been taught trades and oc 
cupations, and that all the wages they 
had earned since their master s death 
had been placed to their credit, and 
would be distributed among them be 
fore they left ; and that they were 
fully equipped with all the agricul 
tural and mechanical appliances they 
might need to make them self-sustain 
ing upon arrival at their future home. 
There were carpenters, blacksmiths, 
coopers among the men ; and cooks, 
laundresses, seamstresses, and nurses 
among the women. It had been in 
tended to send them via Baltimore, by 
a sailing-packet leaving annually in the 
spring for the colony of Liberia with 
immigrants and general supplies, and 
returning with such products as the 



114 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



colony exported ; but an opportunity 
offering, they would be sent direct from 
New Orleans on the sailing ship Re 
becca. 

In the office some of the gentlemen 
indulged in pleasant jokes about " wool 
and ivory," and one of them wrote a 
letter to the surgeon of the United 
States man-of-war Vincennes, stationed 
on the coast of Africa, saying : " This 
is a letter of introduction and may be 
of use to you." I was so engrossed 
with the idea of going to Africa that, 
although I heard, I did not attach that 
special importance to the jokes and re 
marks that I did afterward. Leaving 
them, I went to my lodgings and soon 
packed my books, clothing, etc. 

On my way to the ship, I stopped at 
the telegraph office and sent to my 
parents, in Natchez, Miss., the following 
message : " Gone to the coast of Africa." 
I was on board the ship at twelve o clock, 
at the Government wharf, waiting for 
the tow-boat to be conveyed to sea. I 
presented myself to the captain, who 
was busy with the details of departure. 
He, having received no notice of my 
employment, appeared annoyed, but 
asked me to the cabin and ordered the 
steward to prepare my room. Going 
upon deck I saw a motley group of 
negroes, mulattoes, quadroons, men, 
women, and children of all ages, num 
bering forty-three ; they were busy get 
ting their baggage on board. Many of 
them were not anxious to go, and were 
much disheartened at the idea of leaving 
home. Just then arrived several of the 
commissioners with their wives who were 
known to the negroes, and after a while, 
they were so successful in imparting 
new courage and cheerful faces to the 
immigrants that their adieus were less 
sad than I expected. 

The ship left the wharf at four o clock 
in the evening. Early next morning we 
were at the mouth of the river, and in 
another hour on the open sea. A pleas 
ant southerly breeze drove us along 
about eight miles an hour, and dinner 
being called, I found at the captain s 

table Captain C , a naturalized 

Scotch-Englishman, the first mate, Mr. 
T , a Long Islander, and two Span 
ish gentlemen speaking very little Eng 
lish, and myself. An introduction fol 



lowed, one Spanish gentleman explaining 
that they were on their way to a trad 
ing point on the African coast, repre 
senting a commercial house in Havana, 
and that having waited a long while un 
successfully for an opportunity to get 
there, he had taken passage on this ves 
sel as far as its voyage extended. 

Our dinner over, the mate remained 
in the cabin and the other officers came 
to the table ; we were thus introduced 
by the mate : " This is Dr. Sawbones ; 
I am mate ; here is the second mate ; 
there is the carpenter. Now, how is it 
that you were engaged at the last mo 
ment to come with us ? " After explain 
ing all I knew about it, he replied : " It 
would have been better for you to have 
known something about the ship and 
her destination before you accepted." 
This recalled the jokes of the commis 
sioners and set me thinking. 

That night, during the mate s watch, 
I approached him and, after a few re 
marks about the weather, etc., said : 

"Mr. T , I did not quite understand 

your remark at dinner ; if you can do so, 
please explain." After a long silence, he 
replied : " Well, you will find it out 
sooner or later, and I do not know that 
I am violating any confidence in telling 
you now ; this ship is a Slaver. Yes ; 
that is just what she is, and belongs to 
a company of Spaniards who are repre 
sented here by the eldest of the Spanish 
passengers, who will be the captain at 
the proper time ; the other Spaniard 
will be his mate. They purchased this 
ship two months ago, and have had all 
sorts of difficulties ever since with the 
Custom-house. She sails under the 
American flag, and is supposed to be 
owned by a commission house in New 
Orleans, who are the agents there of the 
Spanish company. They wanted to ob 
tain papers permitting the ship to go to 
the African coast ; just now everything 
destined there is regarded with sus 
picion, and the Spaniards wanted to go 
in ballast to seek a cargo of palm-oil, 
camwood, and any other merchandise of 
fering. The Custom-house authorities 
declined, for various reasons, to issue 
the papers. In the meantime, the ship 
had been loaded with empty casks and 
a quantity of staves in the rough from 
which to manufacture other casks, if 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



115 



necessary. The question of getting suf 
ficient supplies of food aboard was a 
very delicate one, for food could not 
profitably be carried as freight to that 
locality, "and it was not required in 
barter. Then the Spaniards proposed 
to equip her as a whaling-ship, with her 
whaling-ground from Bermuda to the 
Cape of Good Hope. This would per 
mit her occasionally to call on the 
African coast for water and fresh food- 
supplies, yet would require a much 
longer period to complete the trip. 
Just at this time the commission house 
heard of the purpose of the McDonogh 
commissioners to send the ex-slaves, via 
Baltimore, to Liberia. After consider 
ing the matter it was determined to 
offer this ship as a means of transporta 
tion at a very moderate price. If they 
had dared to do so they would have 
been willing to pay a handsome pre 
mium ; the offer was accepted and the 
date fixed. The Spaniards now had a 
legitimate cargo for the African coast, 
and easily procured the necessary papers 
for a trading point on the Congo River, 
stopping at Liberia on the voyage out. 
I can also tell you that your presence 

here is not pleasant for Captain C , 

for he had about determined to run down 
on the south side of Cuba with these 
negroes, leave them at a place he knows 
of, and continue on the voyage. Now, 
this cannot be done, unless you come 
into the arrangement ; but I do not 
think he will say anything to you about 
it. You are a stranger and we are con 
stantly in sight of and speaking vessels, 
and it would be easy for you to say a 
few words which might spoil the entire 
expedition." 

Next morning early, as we were taking 
coffee on deck, the captain, in a general 
conversation, remarked : "What a valu 
able lot of negroes these are ; all the 
men have some trade or vocation which 
makes them most desirable on any plan 
tation. The women are all experienced 
in their duties ; they would bring a 
round sum in Cuba ; and Cuba is very 
near, and I know where they could be 
landed without much risk." 

I replied : " Captain, these negroes 
must be landed at their destination in 
Africa, and as long as I can, I will not 
permit any change of programme." 



As if to disarm me of any suspicion, 
he said : "Of course, they must be 
landed in Liberia, I was only regretting 
that so much money is just thrown 
away." 

During the mate s watch which fol 
lowed, he asked me what Captain C 

had said to me and my reply ; for the 
captain, on his return to the cabin, had 
had a long and stormy conversation 
with the Spanish gentleman, who would 
not be persuaded that there was very 
little risk in landing the negroes in 
Cuba, whether the Doctor consented or 
not. I repeated the conversation be 
tween the captain and myself. The 
mate replied : " Well, that matter is 
now decided, for we are sailing south 
east, instead of southwest, and that 
means we will not stop at Cuba this 
part of the trip." Reassured at this, I 
pressed him to tell me what he knew of 
the voyage. 

" Now," said he, " I am interested in 
this ship s voyage as well as the others, 
and you must pledge your word of 
honor to say nothing to anyone about 
it." I assented. " Well, this is my 
second voyage of this kind ; the first was 
from New York to Africa and Brazil, 
and as slavery will probably be abol 
ished in Brazil, and coolies are getting 
cheaper than negroes in Cuba, this is 
probably the last slave-ship ; and if we 
are successful, we will land the last car 
go of slaves. To begin, you must un 
derstand that there are necessary, one 
person as head manager, and three 
agents, each one with an assistant to 
replace the principal in case of accident, 
sickness, or death. The head resides in 
Havana. One agent, with his assistant, 
the Spanish captain and his friend, on 
board with us, went to the United States 
to purchase the fastest sailing-vessel 
that money could buy, and he found, in 
New Orleans, the Baltimore clipper- ship 
Rebecca, near five hundred and fifty 
tons, carrying sky-sails, studding-sails 
to royal yards, and stay-sails to royals, 
with a record of fourteen knots to wind 
ward, sailing inside of four points from 
the wind. She was fitted out with new 
sails, cordage, extra spars and yards, 
and a large supply of material with 
which to make other sails at sea, and to 
replace uncertain stays, running rig- 



116 



THE LAST SLAl/E-SHIP. 



ging, etc. The Custom-house officers 
seemed to be suspicious of her, and 
watched everything connected with the 
ship very closely. Just at this time the 
offer to the McDonogh commissioners 
was made to take the negroes as pas 
sengers, and arrangements were com 
pleted. Now began the purchase, in 
large quantities, of rice, white beans, 
pork, and biscuit, which were ostensibly 
for our passengers. With a long hose 
all the casks were filled with water from 
an opening below the water-line in the 
ship s bow, a supply of lumber was ob 
tained, and bunks constructed between 
decks the whole length of the ship s 
hold, and for several times the number 
of passengers expected ; a large cooking- 
furnace was also built on deck. An 
other agent and his assistant sailed some 
months ago for the coast of Africa, and 
has purchased and contracted to carry on 
shares as many negroes as can be stowed 
on board. The place where they are to 
meet is known on board only to the Span 
iards; another agent and his assistant 
are established as fishermen on an un 
frequented island on the south side of 
Cuba, I know that much. There, with 
a companion or two, they fish for the 
markets, so as to require a regular camp 
and a small vessel. They will be ready, 
when we arrive, to inform us when and 
where to land the cargo. The head in 
Havana keeps everything in working 
order, and it is his particular business 
to fee the customs officials and keep 
them away from where they are not 
wanted. One ounce of gold, seventeen 
dollars, per head, is the fee he pays to 
the officials for every negro landed, who 
divide among themselves, according to 
previous arrangements." 

Life on board was a very pleasant one, 
our ship splendidly provisioned with 
every delicacy necessary to our comfort ; 
with beautiful weather, our run in the 
Gulf Stream was full of interest. We 
passed south,, of Bermuda and entered 
the great Saragossa sea with its bound 
less fields of sea-weed. Each day ex 
periments were made, by changing size 
and character of sails, to develop the 
greatest speed, and I often wondered 
where they could possibly put another 
yard of canvas. All the masts were 



again examined and put to their utmost 
strain ; new stays and preventer-stays 
were added until it was no longer doubt 
ful about the masts being able to sup 
port any strain. We could easily make 
three hundred and twenty to three hun 
dred and forty miles daily, running as 
close to windward as she could sail. 
Being now in the southeast trades, we 
would run twelve hours on east-north 
east tack and twelve hours on the south 
by west tack, and in the twenty-four 
hours run make a net gain, east, of 
thirty miles. 

The negroes soon became accustomed 
to the motion of the vessel, but the 
length of the voyage tired them, and 
they often assured me that when they 
got ready to return to Louisiana they 
would walk around by land, as they had 
enough of sailing. To keep them em 
ployed, the women were engaged to 
mend and launder our clothing ; as their 
utensils were all stowed away in the 
lower hold, it was necessary to extem 
porize others. The washing and drying 
were easily accomplished, but the iron 
ing was done by putting hot coals in a. 
tin bucket and rubbing that over the 
pieces not much of a success, however, 

" Land ho ! " Anobon appeared like 
a huge sugar - loaf ; we examined the 
chronometers and found them correct, 
and did not approach nearer than about 
ten miles. We were now nearing the 
African coast, and the sailors took de 
light in the horrible stories they told 
our passengers of the customs and habits 
of the people among whom they were 
soon to be landed, with such success 
that they waited upon me and appealed 
piteously to be allowed to return to* 
Louisiana without going ashore ; they 
were willing to return to slavery, and at 
once. I tried to persuade them that 
they were victims of a sailor s joke, but 
they were not reassured. 

On July 1, 1859, there was a terrible 
storm of wind and rain, and the sea very 
rough. Cape Palmas was in sight : 
Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, being 
situated on it. The mist obscured all 
objects near the water, and after a while 
we found that we were being chased by 
a small steamer which had fired a blank 
shot for us to come to. W T e hoisted the 
American flag and sailed on, followed 






THE LAST SLA^E-SH/P. 



117 



Izy the English cruiser Viper. She ap 
proached as near as could be safely done 
and sent an officer on board. He politely 
stated his mission and was invited below, 
where the ship s papers were produced 
and shown him, as an act of courtesy 
for we were now within the limits of the 
Liberian Government. Yet, we might 
again meet our inquisitive visitor ; and if 
he was now satisfied as to our papers, it 
would avoid the necessity of a subsequent 
visit before reaching Congo River, and 
when there might not be wind enough 
to outsail him. The officer pleasantly 
observed that he knew our vessel as 
soon as it was in sight, and had been 
with other cruisers on the lookout for 
us for some time ; that his government, 
by the last mail steamer to St. Paul 
Loanda, had notified the cruisers that 
the ship Rebecca was suspected, and 
had been described with such accuracy 
that there could be no mistake. He 
thought we had an outward bound cargo, 
and was much chagrined to find that it 
was inward bound and at its destination. 
After a short stay he left and steamed 
away to the south. 

The attention of all was now directed 
to a long canoe, manned by four appar 
ently naked negroes, approaching us 
from the shore, through a very rough 
sea, without much apparent effort. 
Coming alongside, they climbed over the 
rail and jumped down among our pas 
sengers, naked, except a piece of cloth 
tied around the loins, fine specimens 
of muscular development, short and 
stout, tattooed down the forehead to the 
end of the nose and on the cheeks with 
a dark-blue pigment. The officers re 
cognized them as Kroornen, a tribe 
dispersed along the coast, employed by 
ships to load, or obtain water, or as 
pilots and never exported. A wail as 
from Hades arose from our passengers; 
it is impossible to picture the conster 
nation and terror the Kroomen oc 
casioned. The sailors, taking advantage 
of the situation, distributed themselves 
among our poor negroes and told them 
it was now time for them to take off 
their store clothes and get ready to go 
ashore just like these people, they 
had come to live with. On their knees 

they implored Captain C , the mate, 

and myself to protect them from these 



savages and take them back, and do any 
thing we desired with them. 

Looking shoreward, there was ap 
parently the end of a chain of mountains 
which gradually sloped to the sea, form 
ing Cape Palmas ; on this could be seen 
indistinctly evidences of habitation, the 
forest covering being quite thick. At 
the base was a small stream, St. Paul 
River, extending some distance into the 
interior ; between the slope and this 
little stream was a village of native huts 
in all their savage picturesqueness ; a 
number of this tribe were scattered along 
the shore, and many of them were coming 
in our direction in their curiously-shaped 
canoes, altogether a picture of unadult 
erated savage life. It was impossible to 
restore the confidence of our negroes 
with this gloomy picture of free Liberia 
and the recollections of the jokes of the 
sailors before them. 

We anchored at a place assigned by 
the Kroomen, and a message was sent 
ashore to the officials announcing our 
arrival, and requesting the presence on 
board of the agent or persons author 
ized to receive our passengers, hoping 
that the European costumes and a 
familiar tongue would accomplish more 
than anything else toward calming the 
disturbed passengers. The storm de 
layed until evening the arrival of the 
official, but his appearance quieted 
them like oil on troubled waters. This 
agent was an enthusiast, and soon gave 
us to understand that the garden of 
Eden was an ill-conditioned suburb 
compared to Monrovia. During two 
days arrangements were being made 
on shore for the transportation of the 
baggage and effects of our passengers. 

July 4th being observed as a " fete " 
day, the officers and myself were in 
vited to dine with the President of the 
Republic and his ministers. Accepting 
the invitation, we landed on the beach, 
in front of the native huts, made of 
bamboo and thatched with straw when 
they had roofs ; and ascending the cape 
by "a tortuous path, we met the only 
white man in the republic, Rev. Mr. 
Evans, an Episcopal missionary during 
thirty years and also acting United 
States consul, under whose care we 
were taken to the executive mansion, 
were introduced to, and welcomed by, 



118 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



President Benson, ex-President Roberts, 
and the cabinet. 

Before returning to the ship, the Rev. 
Dr. Evans took me aside and told me 
he was in considerable doubt as to the 
character of our vessel ; that the Balti 
more ship had not arrived, and he had 
been authorized by the government to 
tender me as my home, during my stay 
awaiting the Baltimore ship, the cutter 
lying in the harbor, which had been 
presented by Queen Victoria and was 
their only war vessel. Thanking him 
for his kindness, I told him I would con 
sider the matter. 

Reaching the ship, I told the officers 
they were suspected. At once a council 
was held and a demand made for the 
landing next day of passengers and ef 
fects, as, so far, there had been no fixed 
date determined upon. The English 
gunboat had just returned to Monrovia 
and was but a short distance from us, 
and her company was not desired longer 
than possible. This demand created 
some surprise, as it was supposed we 
would be several days longer getting 
supplies. 

Next morning a fleet of sloops, canoes, 
and yawls came alongside early. Just 
then the Spanish captain told me I 
could go with the vessel as far as the 
Congo River, where I might meet the mail 
steamer. Thanking him, I accepted and 
so informed the Rev. Mr. Evans. He 
further told me he suspected Captain 

C of treachery, for the return of the 

cruiser looked like it. By noon passengers 
and effects were landed and the captain 
returned with ship s papers, etc. The 
anchor was hoisted and away we went. 
The English cruiser followed with steam 
and sail as long as he could see us ; but 
we sailed twelve miles to his eight, and 
before dark left him out of sight. 

The Spanish captain now appeared on 
deck, a short, swarthy, black-whiskered 
man, with a cold, determined look, 
dressed in open shirt with a large silk 
handkerchief around his neck, white 
trousers, with a large red sash wrapped 
several times around his waist, a wide 
soft hat a typical bandit. His assist 
ant followed in almost similar costume, 
and went forward and rang the ship s 
bell ; the crew was called to the after- 
deck, where the Spanish Captain A 



thus addressed them, in Spanish and 
English : 

" Men, I am now the captain of this 
ship ; this is my first mate," introduc 
ing his assistant ; " the other subordi 
nate officers are retained in their posi 
tions ; the late captain and mate will 
be respected and advised with. The 
object of this voyage is a cargo of 
negroes to be purchased in Africa and 
landed in Cuba ; the trip is full of 
peril, but if successful, full of money. 
If there is one of you who desires to go 
ashore, the ship will stop at a place 
where he can be safely landed, and 
double wages to date given him." 

All expressing themselves anxious to 
sign new articles, the wages were de 
clared, if the voyage was successful, to 
be : For American captain and first 
mate, $5,000 each ; second mate, $3,500 ; 
carpenter, $3,000 ; each sailor, $1,500. 
Our crew numbered twenty-three, all 
told, Turks, Greeks, Italians, Spaniards, 
Scotch, Yankees, and Danes. 

It was plain that the Spanish cap 
tain did not trust Captain C , and 

although they were courteous to each 
other, there was an entire absence of 
familiarity. The crew had the same 
feeling, and on one occasion, while Cap 
tain C was inspecting the rudder 

hinges and suspended in a bow-line 
over the stern, the sailor at the wheel 
took out his knife and made a move 
ment as if to sever the rope and drop 
the captain into the sea. I saw the 
movement and called the Spanish cap 
tain s attention. He positively and firmly 
forbade anything like an attempt on the 

life of Captain C , unless it was plain 

he intended treachery; then he would 
act, and promptly. 

We were some weeks in advance of 
the time for the arrival of our ship at a 
point agreed upon, where the first intel 
ligence could be had of the agents sent 
there months before, and we sailed 
leisurely along until one day s sail from 
Mayumba. This portion of the coast 
was carefully guarded by the United 
States, English, Portuguese, and Spanish 
steam and sailing vessels, so that in ap 
proaching the coast there was consider 
able risk of being overhauled. Although 
our papers were regular to a point on 
Congo River, yet the vessel might have 



THE LAST SLAI/E-SHIP. 



119 



been seized as suspicious, and subjected 
to a return to Sierra Leone ; and there, 
the matter fully investigated by a court 
organized to condemn and confiscate. 

One day our movements were so reg 
ulated that, by sailing all night toward 
the coast, we would be, at daylight, fif 
teen miles distant. A yawl was then 
lowered, and the Spanish captain with 
two sailors entered it, provided with 
two days supplies and compass, and 
pulled away for land. We at once re 
turned to sea, and forty days after were 
to return to the place where the Spanish 
captain had expected to land. We were 
now under the control of the Spanish 
mate and put to sea, four hundred miles 
from land, then sailed back one day, and 
the next returned to sea, for the entire 
period of f orty days, never coming within 
two hundred miles of the shore. This 
was a very quiet and uneventful cruise ; 
on two occasions only did we see ves 
sels, which proved to be whalers whom 
we gave a wide berth. 

At daylight, on the morning of the 
fortieth day, we had approached the 
coast near enough to see distinctly ob 
jects along the shore. Yet, seeing no 
living creature, we were evidently a 
little out of the exact position, so send 
ing a man aloft, to be sure no vessel was 
in sight, we ran along the coast a few 
miles, when we saw a negro waving a 
large white flag, with a red cross its 
entire length and width ; this was the 
signal, and in a short time we saw several 
negroes dragging our yawl to the water 
from its place of concealment. In an 

hour, Captain A was again on board. 

It was plain that something had gone 
wrong ; the agent and assistant had ar 
rived much later than anticipated ; both 
had been ill with African fever and were 
at a trading post on Congo River, trying 
to get well. British cruisers had passed 
almost daily where we were then, and 
could be expected at any moment. A 
council was again held in the cabin ; the 
ship put to sea, and it was determined 
that, as our papers were regular and per 
mitted us to go to Congo River, we 
would proceed there at once and there 
await events. 

Long before we reached Congo River, 
we saw the discoloration of the sea from 
the muddy stream. Far at sea we met 



floating islands of vegetation as much as 
twenty feet square. Approaching the 
river from the sea, there was on the left 
an elevated plateau, at the base of which 
the French Government had a station, 
where negroes were apprenticed to 
employers in the French islands of the 
West Indies, for a number of years, for 
a little more than the Spaniards pur 
chased them outright. The apprentices 
did not get the money, but the govern 
ment agent, in consideration of the 
money, obliged his government to secure 
them a home, etc., at the expiration of 
contract. A French gun-boat lay at the 
station as we passed by. 

The river is irregular in width, from 
two-thirds to one and a half mile, shal 
low, full of islands, with a very tortuous 
channel from side to side. We secured 
the services of a pilot, a prince of one of 
the Congo tribes near us, on the left bank 
as you ascend. His costume was an old 
military coat and a much dilapidated 
Panama hat, his wrists and arms encir 
cled with thick silver rings and with a 
multitude of others of a kind of fibre. 
Short in stature, about five feet three or 
four inches, fine regular features, as are 
all of the Congoes, perfect teeth, hand 
somely developed limbs, and clean for a 
negro. 

Light winds and the strong current 
delayed our arrival at the trading station, 
about seventy miles from the mouth, 
until the next day. Arriving, we found 
a boat with two white men in it ; one 
was recognized as the agent s assistant, 
and before they reached us, we were in 
formed that the agent had died of con 
sumption and African fever. The speaker 
was slowly convalescing, and all trading 
operations had been suspended until his 
recovery or the arrival of the ship. His 
companion in the boat was a trader, at 
whose post he had found a home. We 
were now in for a delay of some time, as 
Spaniards move slowly. We were an 
chored about seventy-five yards from 
the shore or left bank going up stream. 

One day we saw coming up the river 
a man-of-war s long boat, with an officer 
and ten men ; they anchored almost im 
mediately under our bow, and there they 
remained as long as we were in the 
river ; they were from the gun-boat 
Tigris and had spoken the Vixen, 



120 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



which we learned had gone farther 
south to look out for us. The Tigris 
lay at the mouth of the river to intercept 
us, if an attempt be made to leave with a 
cargo of negroes. Again the Spanish 
captain left us for many days. It being 
necessary to replenish our store of 
water, it was done with a hose through 
the opening in the bow, without the 
boat s crew knowiDg anything about it, 
although but a few feet distant. 

During this time I took several trips 
up the river, going farther than any 
white man had been known to ascend it, 
and saw many tribes of negroes who had 
heard of white men from the lower 
tribes, but had never seen one, and was 
much of a curiosity with my European 
clothing and my white skin. The upper 
tribes gave me to understand that a 
white man was far from the coast, in the 
interior, that they had heard of him 
through neighboring tribes. So long a 
time had elapsed that my coming re 
called what they had heard of the white 
man, and they supposed I was the man ; 
this was Livingstone, the great explorer, 
who having reached one of the branches 
of the Congo River, diverged from it to 
explore another route. 

One of the interior traders visiting 
the river informed us that a disease 
which, he said, was declared to be small 
pox, had broken out in the barracoons 
where the negroes intended for our ship 
were being collected, and asked what 
could be done about it. Examining my 
pocket-case, I found a vaccine crust en 
veloped in adhesive plaster, which had 
been given me by Professor Fenner, 
with which to vaccinate poor people ap 
plying at the free dispensary connected 
with our college. 

I left with the Spaniard, and journey 
ing two days up the river, was carried 
southward many miles into the interior, 
in a palanquin or hammock slung be 
tween two poles, with two men at each 
end of a pole. This route was circuitous 
to avoid the annoyance of other tribes 
who would levy heavy tribute. Arriving, 
I found a barracoon to be an enclosure 
of, may be, a square of ground about 
three hundred feet on each side, fenced 
with bamboo about eight or nine feet high, 
a thatched roof running sometimes entire 
ly around it, extending, perhaps, ten feet 



toward the centre. A very frail struct 
ure as a place of confinement, but suffi 
cient to shelter from sun and rain and 
heavy dews, which were very cool. 
These barracoons were permitted in this 
locality by neighboring chiefs, because 
it enabled them easily to dispose of their 
products of depredation upon weaker 
tribes, and, being so far in the interior, 
they were safe from unauthorized visi 
tors. I found a few negroes suffering 
from small-pox, contracted from a tribe 
which frequented the coast, having in 
tercourse with Kroomen who had con 
tracted it in St. Paul de Loanda. At 
once the infected were separated and 
new barracoons erected for them, as 
well as for the uninfected, in a distant 
locality. The old barracoons were burned, 
and as far as the vaccine virus could be 
extended, it was at once used. In a few 
days, I was pleased to find a number of 
those vaccinated with a new supply of 
virus, with which I continued to vacci 
nate until the supply was exhausted. 
The Portuguese were also vaccinated and 
taught how to use the virus and save 
crusts for future use. The disease, as far 
as I could learn, was arrested there.* 

From the Spaniard with me I learned 
that enough negroes had been purchased 
and contracted for to be transported on 
shares, to load our ship ; and that her 
departure was only a question of when 
they could be put on board without risk 
of small-pox reappearing among them. 
The negroes were then sent by easy 
marches to a place half a day s journey 
from the sea- coast, where they would 
remain until the time agreed upon to 
move to the coast. This last march to 
the coast was always done at night, so 
that they had ample time to arrive be 
fore daylight. The ship was due at day 
light, and if she could not reach the 
coast at that hour, the whole business 

From the factors here I learned something about the 
manner in which the slave trade was carried on in Africa. 
A trader, Portuguese always, procured consent from a 
head of a strong tribe to establish himself among them, 
and paid liberally in presents for the privilege. Consent* 
obtained, a barracoon was at once built, and each mem 
ber of the tribe was a self-constituted guardian to protect 
it ; a scale of prices was agreed upon for negroes, ac 
cording to age and sex, averaging two fathoms or four 
yaids of calico, one flint-lock musket, one six-pound keg 
of coarse powder, one two-gallon keg of rum, some beads 
and brass wire ; an English value of about eight dollars 
gold for each negro captured by this tribe from neigh 
boring and weaker ones. There had been a lower rate of 
prices until within a few years, when competition had 
slowly increased them to present rates. 



THE LAST SLAYE-SHIP. 



121 



was postponed generally one week, the 
negroes immediately returned to the 
half-day station, rested, and cared for. 
We returned to the ship on the river, 
and found quiet preparations being 
made to leave at a moment s notice ; the 
officers purchasing goats, poultry, and 
fruit. 

Captain A alone knew the locality 

where the negroes would be met, and it 
was impossible for any sailor to have 
given information of value to the Eng 
lish in their boat under our bow. 

No opportunity had yet offered for 
my return to America, and the ship was 
about to sail. I could not make up my 
mind to remain on Congo River, and 
risk African fever for an indefinite 
period. The spirit of adventure, con 
siderable curiosity, and great confidence 
in my good luck, prompted me to accept 
an invitation from the Spanish captain 
to remain with the ship. At this time 
we learned that a Portuguese man-of- 
war had visited the mouth of the river 
and, finding the English gunboat Vixen 
there, had gone on to the north. This 
made things very much mixed, one cruis 
er south, one at the river s mouth, and 
one north, and the Portuguese was the 
worst one of all. At that time, if a ves 
sel was captured with negroes on board, 
they, and the ship with her officers, were 
taken to Sierra Leone ; the sailors being 
landed at or near the place of capture 
to look out for themselves. If the ship 
had a flag and could be identified, the 
officers were transferred at Sierra Leone 
to their respective governments for trial, 
the negroes sent ashore, and an attempt 
at colonization made, and the ship sold 
and broken up ; but if no nationality 
could be established, the officers were 
imprisoned for a term at Sierra Leone, 
with or without civil trials. If the Portu 
guese made a capture, every officer and 
sailor was sent to their penal settlements, 
and that was the last ever heard of them. 
The American government had the sail 
ing man-of-war Vincennes stationed near 
us ; we did not wish to meet her, for 
she was a fine sailer. 

One morning, early, about October 1, 
1859, the anchor was raised and we 
sailed down the river ; our papers yet 
protected us, for we had ostensibly made 



an unsuccessful mercantile venture, and 
were returning home. We took the 
English yawl in tow, and inviting the 
officer on board, enjoyed a pleasant trip 
to the mouth of the river, reaching there 
in the afternoon. The gun-boat steamed 
alongside to get her officer and learn 
our destination, and being informed, 
"United States," said : " Oh ! of course ! 
perhaps ! " Our course during the even 
ing and night was northwest, as if we 
were returning to the United States. 
This was to get off shore and ascertain 
the strength of the wind at that season, 
at different distances, also to see what 
speed we could make. At daylight our 
course was shaped south, and all hands 
employed in removing every trace of 
name from bow, stern, and small boats. 
The ship s side was painted all black 
we had white ports before. Every paper 
or scrap that could be found was, with 
our American flag, weighted and thrown 
overboard. 

"Now!" said Captain A , "we 

have no name, and no nationality ; we 
are nobody and know nothing. If we are 
captured, every mouth must be sealed, 
in that way only can we escape the se 
vere penalties." 

For four days and nights we cruised 
about, keeping the distance of nearly 
one hundred and fifty miles from land. 
On the afternoon of the fourth day, hav 
ing taken accurate observations of our 
position at sea, our course was shaped 
for the coast ; every light was extin 
guished but that of the binnacle, which 
was hooded so that the man at the wheel 
could see the compass and yet the light 
could not be seen ; an extra watch was 
kept, and at three o clock next morning 
we were within two miles of the shore, 
latitude 6 10 south, previously agreed 
upon. So correct were the chronom 
eters, and the estimation of wind and 
current, that there was no error in our 
calculations, we could hear the roar of 
the breakers, but there was not light 
enough to see the shore. As it grew 
lighter we could see the low shore-line, 
which appeared to be broken into small 
hillocks of sand sparsely covered with a 
scrubby vegetation. 

A number of small craft could be seen 
outside the breakers, they resembled 
oyster-boats. After a satisfactory scru- 



122 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



tiny of the horizon with a glass from the 
masthead, our signal, a large white flag 
with a red cross, was hoisted, and as it 
blew out was answered from the shore. 
Very soon the beach seemed to swarm 
with moving objects which we could not 
yet distinguish. A number of long, 
black objects left the shore, and, when 
through the breakers, they stopped at 
the small craft outside. Now we could 
see that the negroes were being trans 
ferred to the boats outside the breakers, 
from canoes, which ran through them, 
with from four to six in each. As the 
sloops were filled they sailed for the ship, 
and, ladders having been arranged, the 
negroes were soon coming over the 
ship s side; as each one reached the 
deck he was given a biscuit and sent 
below. It seemed slow work at first, 
but as the canoes were soon all launched 
and rushing through the surf, it pre 
sented a busy scene. The sloops were 
now flying to and from us, and a great 
number of negroes were already on board 
at 2 P.M. 

The lookout at the masthead shouted : 
" Sail, ho ! away to the southward." 
From the deck we could see nothing. 
A danger signal was hoisted at once to 
hurry all aboard faster ; in a short while 
we could see from the deck a little black 
spot. Smoke ! A cruiser ! Another 
signal, a blood-red flag, was hoisted, in 
forming those ashore of the kind of 
danger. If possible the bustle ashore 
was increased ; our own boats were 
lowered, and they aided materially. The 
approaching vessel had seen us and the 
volume of smoke increased. She could 
now be seen, and was recognized as the 
Vixen with the naked eye. A signal 
from shore that a very few remained 
was hoisted, another hour passed, and 
the vessel was certainly within three 
miles. Our boats were recalled, and 
the entire fleet of sloops soon sailed to 
ward us. Our boats were hoisted, and 
lines thrown to the sloops now alongside. 
The Vixen now changed her course 
slightly and fired a solid shot, which 
passed to leeward of us, beyond. At 
this the Spanish captain cried out : " Let 
go ! " The pin holding the staple in the 
anchor chain was cut, and the chain 
parted. Sail was hoisted rapidly, the 
negroes in the sloops climbed over the 



ship s side, and as the sloops were emp 
tied they were cast adrift with their 
single occupant, a Krooman. They 
scattered like frightened birds. 

We seemed a long time getting head 
way, and everybody was looking very 
anxious, as other sails were set ; stud 
ding-sails were added, stay-sails hoisted, 
and a large square sail on the mizzen- 
mast from the deck to topsail such a 
cloud of canvas that I felt sure the masts 
would go overboard. The Vixen was 
now within one mile and she seemed 
to have wonderful speed ; again she 
changed her course and there followed a 
puff of smoke. That was too close for 
comfort, I thought, as the splashing sea 
showed where the ball ricocheted, and so 
very near. We seemed to have gained 
some in distance during this manoeuvre, 
and the wind grew stronger the farther 
we got from land. A cloud of black 
smoke showed that a grand effort was 
being made by our pursuer to recover 
the distance lost while changing her 
course to fire at us. We were now easily 
going ahead and the distance was 
greater between us, the wind so strong 
that we were compelled to take in the 
lofty studding-sails. Another hour, and 
it was getting near night, with the 
cruiser at least five miles astern, still 
holding on, hoping something would 
happen to disable us yet. Night fell, but 
we continued our course without change 
until midnight, when we sailed south- 
southwest until daylight, so that if some 
thing should happen to our masts, we 
should be far from the route of our pur 
suer if he still followed us. 

At daylight we were on a west by north 
course, and the southeast trade-wind was 
driving us along fourteen knots an hour. 
Looking around, I found a number of 
strange white men, Spaniards, repre 
senting the barracoon from which some 
of the negroes were taken on shares. 
One half for the ship, the other half for 
the owner, whose representative would 
purchase merchandise in the United 
States or England, and ship to St. Paul 
de Loanda in the mail steamer, and from 
there in small sloops to destination. 
Among the sailors I found a number of 
strange faces, the crew of a captured 
vessel previously spoken of. They were 
glad to have a chance to return. 



THE LAST SLAISE-SHIP. 



123 



During the embarkation I was engaged 
separating those negroes who did not 
appear robust, or who had received some 
trifling injury in getting on deck, and 
sending them to an improvised hospital 
made by bulkheading a space in the rear 
of the forecastle. The others, as they 
arrived, were stowed away by the Span 
ish mate ; so that when all were aboard 
there was just room for each to lie upon 
one side. As no one knew what pro 
portion were men, all were herded to 
gether. The next morning the sepa 
ration took place ; the women and girls 
were all sent on deck, and numbered 
about four hundred. Then a close 
bulkhead was built across the ship and 
other bunks constructed. The women 
were then sent below, and enough men 
sent up to enable the carpenter to have 
room to construct additional bunks. A 
more docile and easily managed lot of 
creatures cannot be imagined. No vio 
lence of any kind was necessary ; it was 
sometimes difficult to make them under 
stand what was wanted ; but as soon as 
they comprehended, immediate compli 
ance followed. 

The negroes were now sent on deck 
in groups of eight and squatted around 
a large wooden platter, heaping-full of 
cooked rice, beans, and pork cut into 
small cubes. The platters were made 
by cutting off the head of flour or other 
barrels, leaving about four inches of the 
staves. Each negro was given a wooden 

ron, which all on board had amused 
mselves in making during our forty- 
day trip. Barrel staves were sawed into 
lengths of eight inches, split into other 
pieces one and a half inch wide, and 
then shaped into a spoon with our 
pocket-knives. It was surprising what 
good spoons could be made in that man 
ner. A piece of rope yarn tied to a 
spoon and hung around the neck was 
the way in which every individual re 
tained his property. There not being 
room on deck for the entire cargo to 
feed at one time, platters were sent be 
tween decks, so that all ate at one hour, 
three times daily. Casks of water were 
placed in convenient places, and an 
abundant supply furnished day and 
night. When night came they were 
stowed in their new quarters, the men 
amidships, the women in the apartment 



bulkheaded from the men aft, the hospi 
tal forward. Looking down through 
the hatches they were seen like sardines 
in a box, on the floor and in the bunks, 
as close as they could be crowded. 
Large wind-sails furnished a supply of 
fresh air, and the open hatches sufficient 
ventilation. 

A muster was made the next day to 
verify the lists held by each party repre 
sented. I was curious to know how 
each owner could single out his property 
among so many that did not present any 
distinguishing peculiarities. I discov 
ered that each factor had a distinguish 
ing brand ; some a letter, others a ge 
ometrical figure ; and every negro was 
branded with a hot iron on the left 
shoulder, a few days before shipment, 
by his owner or representative. They 
were all young, none less than twelve or 
fourteen, and none appearing over thirty 
years. Their contentment that day sur 
prised me. They numbered, all told, near 
twelve hundred. 

Captain A then selected about 

twenty of the strong men and clothed 
them with a sack which had holes cut in 
it for head and arms ; these men were 
called Camisas (shirts), and were re 
quired to do the scrubbing and cleaning 
between decks, etc., and given daily a 
small allowance of rum. The women 
were divided into squads and sent on 
the after-deck for an hour for each squad. 
This changing kept up until night ; the 
men were confined to the main-deck be 
tween cabin and forecastle, and sent in 
squads of as many as could get on deck 
at once. As they came up on the first 
trip, each morning, every one plunged 
into casks of salt water and ran about 
until dry. 

Notwithstanding their apparent good 
health, each morning three or four dead 
would be found, brought upon deck, 
taken by arms and heels, and tossed over 
board as unceremoniously as an empty 
bottle. Of what did they die ? and al 
ways at night? In the barracoons it 
was known that if a negro was not 
amused and kept in motion, he would 
mope, squat down with his chin on his 
knees and arms clasped about his legs, 
and in a very short time die. Among 
civilized races it is thought impossible 
to hold one s breath until death follows ; 



124 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



it is thought the Africans can do so. 
They had no means of concealing any 
thing, and certainly did not kill each 
other. The duties of the Camisas were 
also to look after the other negroes dur 
ing the day, and when found sitting 
with knees up and head drooping, the 
Camisas would start them up, run them 
about the deck, give them a small ration 
of rum, and divert them until in a nor 
mal condition. 

The negroes had brought on board 
with them several small monkeys, which 
were, to them, a constant source of 
amusement. Another and almost per 
petual pastime was the exploration of 
each other s head. We were now far 
away from land, making fourteen knots 
each hour, and had no fear of any mo 
lestation for some time to come. The 
negroes seemed to tire of the monotony 
of things, and some grog was daily dis 
tributed to the men, and native songs 
and dances were constantly going on. 
The ingenuity of everyone was taxed to 
provide a new source of amusement ; a 
special watch was put at each hatch to 
render any assistance in the event of 
sickness, and to prevent intrusion by 
the sailors. The throwing overboard 
of the dead did not seem to affect them 
in any way, as it was their belief they 
returned to Africa after death away 
from home. 

It was interesting to note the tribal 
distinctions among them ; tattooing was 
not general, but the teeth were either 
drawn or filed in most fantastic ar 
rangements, generally to a point like 
saw-teeth, or every other one was filed 
half-way down ; the nose, lips, and ears 
had perforations of different sizes, and 
a mark of distinction appeared to be 
the cicatrices of numerous short in 
cisions in the skin of arms, breast, and 
legs, sometimes of irregular shapes with 
attempts at geometrical figures. The 
colors of their skin varied also from a 
shining black to griffe. They have a 
multitude of gods, and to secure recog 
nition, procure from the fetich or medi 
cine men amulets or wristlets and ank 
lets of braided fibre which are braided 
on the limb by the medicine man, and 
remain until death or worn out. One 
will protect from fire, another from 
drowning, another from sickness, from 



serpents, from thunder (for which they 
have profound respect), from crocodiles 
in fact, all the ills of life known to 
them. They fraternized as if belonging 
to the same tribe, and I do not recall a 
single instance of an altercation. 

We were now near the end of Octo 
ber and rapidly approaching the Carib- 
bee Islands. Maps were examined, and, 
after some discussion, it was thought 
safest to run between the French islands 
of Martinique and Dominique, and our 
course was shaped for the fifteenth de 
gree of latitude, being midway. One 
morning the mountains of each could 
be seen, and as we passed between the 
islands, they appeared about twelve 
miles distant. Thus far we had not 
met a sail, and in passing, although at 
considerable distance, sent all the ne 
groes below, that we might appear to be 
an ordinary merchantman. We kept 
about one hundred miles south of Porto 
Rico, San Domingo, and Hayti, until 
we were near the extreme western end 
of Hayti. Our route was now between 
Hayti and Jamaica, as it was thought 
the winds would hold better than going 
to the south of Jamaica. While about 
midway, the lookout discovered a steamer 
far to the westward, and as its course 
was not yet known, we shortened such 
sail as could be done without discovery 
and waited. After half an hour it was 
seen that the steamer s course was al 
most east, and would intercept us. We 
slightly changed our course that we 
might pass behind, and sent all the ne 
groes below as well as the greater part 
of the wiiite men. We desired to pass 
so far distant that the absence of a 
name on our bow would not be noticed. 
The steamer was very slow, and was 
thought to be the Engh sh mail steamer 
from Kingston, touching at Hayti and 
San Domingo. She passed about five 
miles distant, and we breathed freely 
after her disappearance, then all sail 
was again made, the negroes sent on 
deck, and an extra biscuit given each 
one as a thank-offering. 

We were soon north of Jamaica, but 
there was a dangerous place which wor 
ried us greatly, Cape de Cruz, the ex 
treme southern point of Cuba, and on the 
eastern end. Our course was now north- 



THE LAST SLAl^E-SHIP. 



125 



west. Vessels from the United States 
approach very closely, thereby saving 
distance to Trinidad, a prominent port 
on the south side of Cuba, where sugar 
and molasses are largely exported. We 
knew that an American cruiser was sta 
tioned here to intercept slavers, and we 
did not wish to run a race with her. 
The speed of our ship was so governed 
that we could run by the dreaded lo 
cality late at night and at a considerable 
distance, about fifty miles. To do so 
we put on all the sail which could be 
safely carried. 

I now for the first time learned our 
destination : Take a map of Cuba and 
you will see, south-southeast of Puerto 
Principe a chain of six little islands run 
ning parallel with the island of Cuba, 
and about twenty-five or thirty miles dis 
tant. The second one from the western 
end is the largest ; it has a scrubby 
growth of mangrove bushes about eight 
feet high, a few cocoanut-trees, and a 
most valuable spring of fresh water. It 
is less than a mile wide and nearly three 
miles long, of coral formation, but a few 
feet above the level of the sea. 

It was necessary that our approach be 
after midday, so that the negroes could 
be discharged and the vessel disposed 
of before dark. By burning it at night 
the light would have attracted greater 
attention than in the day, and during 
the day it might have been supposed 
some brush was burning ashore. The 
place was a regular highway for all 
vessels approaching and leaving the 
south of Cuba. 

November 3d, we were but fifty miles 
distant at daylight, with light winds, 
making about eight miles an hour. 
About ten o clock, some few miles ahead 
of us, we saw an American bark bound 
in the same direction. It never would 
have done to approach her near enough 
to be spoken, for the captain would, in 
all probabilities, have invited himself 
aboard to have a chat for an hour or 
two. We could not shorten sail, for it 
would have attracted attention, the more 
so as her canvas had been reduced to 
enable us the sooner to overhaul her. 

What could we do ? Captain A called 

the carpenter, who, with the assistance 
of the crew, brought on deck two large 
water casks. The head of each was re 



moved, ropes secured to the rim, and 
lowered astern, so that they would drag 
with the open end toward the ship ; as 
soon as the ropes tightened our speed 
was reduced so much that the bark 
rapidly drew ahead, and in an hour 
could not see what we were doing. 

It was now mid-da} 7 , and the chain of 
islands was in sight. We had calculated 
very closely the position of the one we 
were seeking ; but our casks retarded our 
speed so that we would reach it later 
than we expected. At mid-day another 
observation was taken and our island 
located exactly about fifteen miles dis 
tant. As we approached it our signal 
flag the large white one with a red 
cross was hoisted to the top of the main 
mast. Some time elapsed and no sign 
of any living creature on the island. 
We were more than six weeks behind 
the most liberal estimate of time, and 
our Spaniards began to fear that those 
assigned to meet us here had given up 
all hopes of a successful voyage and had 
gone to the main-land. Just as the 
gloomiest views seemed to be about 
realized, we saw two men running 
through the thin undergrowth to the 
water s edge, waving their hats and ges 
ticulating wildly. A shout of recogni 
tion was the return salute. The ship 
was sailed to within half a mile, and in 
fourteen fathoms of water, and anchored. 
The four boats were lowered in a hurry 
and the landing of the negroes began. 
It was wonderful how many could be 
gotten into a yawl in the quiet sea. 
More than two hours were needed to 
land all of them, and a sufficient num 
ber of large sails for shelter and food 
supplies. 

The carpenter had been sent below 
to scuttle the ship ; all the combustible 
material aboard was collected in the 
forecastle, between decks, and in the 
cabin, liberally saturated with oil, tur 
pentine, and paint, and as the last of us 
left the ship the match was applied to 
each heap, and before we were ashore 
she was on fire from stem to stern. The 
rigging soon burned and the upper 
masts fell one after the other, still held 
to the ship by the heavy stays. She 
gradually sank, and before an hour there 
was nothing on the sea left to indicate 
a ship s destruction. 



12G 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



As the negroes were landed they were 
hurried back far enough to be out of 
sight of any passing vessel, the scanty 
growth of mangrove affording ample 
hiding. After dark the sails were so 
spread and secured as to shelter the 
negroes from the dews, which were cold 
after the warm days : these tents were 
taken down before daylight, as they 
could have been seen by a passing vessel. 
Great was the joy of the Spaniards at 
being ashore in a place of security, for 
they felt tranquil about the part yet to 
come. Immediately after all were ashore 
the fishing sloop was despatched to the 
main-land with intelligence of our ar 
rival, and during its absence I explored 
the island. I found it of coral formation 
and covered with thin soil and very little 
grass. Except the mangrove bushes 
there were no others but about a dozen 
cocoa-nut trees, stunted in growth but 
with a good supply of fruit yet green, 
and highly esteemed as a delicacy. 

The stay on the island was delightful, 
the waters furnishing us with a great 
many varieties of fish, which were ap 
preciated. The joy of the negroes was 
great at being ashore, and so bountifully 
supplied with food and water. Each 
day vessels passed, and some of them so 
near that we feared they would discover 
the island s secret. 

Before the sloop left us there was 
considerable discussion among the sailors 
about their pay, they wishing to be paid 
before the negroes were sent to the main 
land, and the Spaniards desiring that the 
remaining risks should be shared by all 
alike and all paid at the final destination. 
The matter was compromised by the 
Spaniards agreeing to pay those who 
demanded it ; but that their protection 
ended there, and those paid would remain 
on the island until they were sent for 
after our arrival. Four days after the 
sloop left, two small schooners arrived 
bringing the money for those who de 
manded it, and they were paid in Spanish 
doubloons. The negroes were now 
transferred to the two schooners, and al 
though they had appeared closely packed 
in the ship they were now jammed to 
gether in the hold, as none could be al 
lowed on deck. The officers were divided, 
and were permitted to remain on deck 
in the little space that could be found. 



We now left for Trinidad, about sev 
enty-five miles distant, and before dark 
sailed right into the harbor amid a fleet of 
vessels. We were met by a custom-house 
boat and told where to anchor, and did 
so, less than one hundred yards from 
an American bark, which seemed to be 
our late would-be acquaintance. Our 
schooners had the appearance of ordi 
nary coasters and did not attract any at 
tention. At ten o clock that night we 
saw a bright light on the beach at the 
extreme east end of the harbor, and we 
sailed for it. Arriving we were informed 
that arrangements were not complete for 
transportation, and could not be before 
next night. We returned to our anchor 
age and kept busy all night distributing 
biscuits and water to the negroes, who 
were hungry and restless. The night air 
was cold, and to keep warm I stood in 
the open hatch with my chin on a level 
with the deck, keeping my body in the 
warm air below while I breathed pure 
air ; to go below and remain a few 
minutes was terrible. I feared some of 
the negroes would die in such an impure 
atmosphere. 

Morning came slowly, and again every 
care was taken not to betray in any way 
our character. Sail after sail passed us 
coming and going. What a long day ! 
The city of Trinidad, starting from the 
beach, rises to quite a height ; the old- 
fashioned houses and irregular streets 
had very little interest, as we tired our 
eyes trying to find something which 
could possibly relieve the monotony and 
sense of great danger we felt. My pa 
tience was exhausted long before dark. 
At last the sun went down, the air 
became cool, and night again obscured 
everything. At ten o clock the light re 
appeared and we sailed for it, showing 
a single lantern, which was extinguished 
as we approached. The sloop ran ashore 
in about two feet of water, and the 
negroes hurried ashore without noise, 
wading. 

I saw in the darkness a long line of 
wagons, two-wheeled, with an open 
frame of poles and cords extending 
around the body of the wagon about 
three feet high. The women and young 
est negroes were put in the wagons, the 
framework supporting them from fall 
ing and enabling many more to crowd 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



127 



in. The wagons started, the negro men 
following us on foot. The route led 
over a mountainous country, through 
coffee plantations, into the interior. The 
travelling was slow for some time. We 
at last descended to a plain and moved 
along very lively, reaching, at 7 A.M., 

the plantation of Don S. B , which 

was our final destination, nearly twenty- 
three miles from the coast ; here we 
halted. The negroes were sent to an in- 
closure to be fed and rested, the officers 
were escorted to the residence of the 
proprietor, where we had a bath, change 
of clothing, a good breakfast, and felt 
greatly refreshed. 

We were seated on the veranda of the 
residence, smoking, when there arrived a 
Catholic priest and an assistant, who 
passed on to the inclosure. Shortly 
after came a wagon filled with clothing, 
and being curious to witness anything 
else connected with the negroes I fol 
lowed. Inside the inclosure the negroes 
were drawn up in rows. Their brands 
were examined and they were separated 
into lots representing each mark. The 
priest, assisted by his young man, passed 
along in front, the young man register 
ing the name the priest had given each, 
as they were baptized. As the priest 
finished one lot they were at once fur 
nished, the women with a sort of loose 
gown of coarse cotton-cloth, and the 
men with a long shirt, and then sent off 
in different directions. Dinner being 
called we returned to the residence. 
After dinner I returned to the inclosure, 
but there was not a negro there, and 
visiting the fields with the proprietor 
I did not see one that I thought had 

made the voyage with us. Don S. B 

said that there were but twenty-five of 
the new arrivals on his plantation, the 
others having been delivered to the plant 
ers who had already contracted for them, 
paying $350 for each. We were guests 

of Don S. B four days, and were 

very hospitably entertained. 

The other Spaniards now began to 
interest themselves in behalf of the 
American captain, mate, and myself. 
The laws of Cuba required every person 
landed to be provided with a passport 
or permit, the latter being issued under 
certain conditions for one month, at the 



expiration of which the holder would 
be arrested if on the island ; this per 
mit, if the person is satisfactorily identi 
fied and vouched for, can be renewed 
from month to month. Now, we had 
arrived without the knowledge of the 
government, and had neither passport 
nor permit. These permits for one 
month were purchased for us by the 
Spaniards from an accommodating of 
ficial, at a cost to them of one doubloon 
(seventeen doUars) each. We concluded 
to go now to Havana, that place offer 
ing more opportunities for our leaving 
the island than the smaller ports. My 
permit represented me as a machinist, 
the captain s as a carpenter, and the 
mate s as a merchant, there being a 
number of Americans on the island in 
those capacities. 

At three o clock on the morning of 
the fifth day after our arrival we 
started for Trinidad to take the coast 
steamer to Batabano, stopping at Cien- 
fuegos, Casilda, and other points. We 
were escorted by our Spanish friends, 
all of us on horseback with old-fashioned 
trappings, holsters, and pistols. The 
steamer left soon after our arrival, and 
there were several passengers, who scru 
tinized us very closely. On the evening 
of the following day we were at Bata 
bano, the terminus of a railroad across 
the island to Havana, and late in the 
evening were in Havana, at the Ameri 
can Hotel, corner of Obrapia and Mer- 
caderes Streets, not far from the resi 
dence of the Captain-General. After 
we were there two weeks I saw an 
American steamer come into the harbor, 
and soon went out in a boat (steamers 
not being able to approach the wharves 
because of insufficient depth of water). 
I asked about passage to the United 
States ; she was leaving the next day. 
I was asked for my passport, and reply 
ing that I left it at my lodgings, I was 
informed I could come on board next 
day, one hour before leaving, provided 
with my passport, and could go with 
them. I had no passport, and my per 
mit would not answer, so I remained 
ashore while she steamed away, and be 
gan thinking. 

Two or three days after, a steamer 
from New York to Panama arrived, with 
some accident to her machinery which 



128 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



delayed her several days. I went out 
to her, shortly after her arrival, and saw 
that a number of her passengers were 

foing ashore to visit the city during the 
elay of the ship ; they could get a per 
mit at a certain place on the wharf 
and remain ashore if they desired. A 
happy idea flashed upon me, and I 
went ashore with them and asked for a 
permit to visit the island during the 
stay of the vessel ; it cost twenty-five 
cents and was given to me. I then 
went to the Captain-General s office, to 
the passport department, and stated that 
I was a passenger on the steamer in 
the harbor from New York to Panama, 
destined to San Francisco ; that I was an 
engineer going to California ; and while 
visiting the city on my permit I had 
met a planter with whom I had made 
arrangements to take off his sugar crop, 
and the season was near at hand ; that 
some new machinery was needed in the 
sugar-house, which could only be pro 
cured in the United States in time for 
use that season, and that it would be 
necessary for me to return to New 
Orleans by the Panama steamer now 
due. I therefore asked for a passport, 
as the steamer could not take me with 
out one. The clerk said those things 
were of frequent occurrence and soon 
had my passport ready, describing me 
very accurately my height, color of hair 
and eyes, condition of teeth, etc. Hurry 
ing to the hotel I related my experience 
to the American captain and mate, who 
concluded to try their luck in the role 
of homesick and discontented gold-seek 
ers anxious to return to their home in the 
States. Both of them got into a boat, 
were taken out to and around the ship 
to the place of landing spoken of, ob 
tained their permits, and together went 
to the passport office declaring them 
selves disgusted with the idea of going 
to California, and desiring to go back 
home via New Orleans, on the steamer 
reported due in a day or two. They 
obtained their passports and came to 
the hotel, where, in our well-closed 
room, a bottle of wine was opened and 
a toast drank to the success of my 
scheme. 

Two days after the Panama steamer 
arrived and remained two days. We 



were not permitted to go aboard with, 
our baggage until one hour before she 
sailed, but we were on hand in a small 
boat waiting for the hour. As we as 
cended the steps we were met by an 
officer who demanded our passports. 
These being produced and pronounced 
satisfactory we were allowed on board 
and the steward took charge of us. 
The longest hour I ever knew now slowly 
passed. At last the bells rang, the 
wheels turned, and we slowly got 
under way. We passed the frowning 
fortress Cabana, which might have been 
our prison ; farther on the Morro 
Castle, at the head of the narrow strait 
from the sea to the harbor. We passed 
out, saluted the fort, and felt quiet. 
Looking around I saw the customs of 
ficials yet on board. Their presence 
gave me great uneasiness until, when a 
mile from shore, they descended to their 
boat and left us. I could have shouted 
with joy when they were at a distance 
from us, and with difficulty restrained 
myself. It was now dark and we were 
far away from Cuba. 

Two days more and we were again 
in New Orleans. After a hurried in 
spection of my baggage, I jumped into 
a cab, and passing by the telegraph office 
sent the folio wing message to my parents 
in Natchez, Miss. : "Just returned from 
the coast of Africa, safe and well." Con 
tinuing to the Medical College I met 
Professor Howard Smith, whose joy at 
my return was nearly as great as mine. 
With him I visited the McDonogh Com 
missioners and related the history of 
the voyage to Liberia, and, as they asked 
no questions about the rest of the trip, 
I did not say more than, it being im 
possible to return as had been prom 
ised me, I had been obliged to make 
a very lengthy and troublesome trip 
along the African coast until I had an 
opportunity to return via Jamaica and 
Cuba. 

Thirty years have elapsed and nearly 
all of those connected with that voyage 
must ere this have gone to their last 
rest. I have never seen one of them 
since, and do not feel that I now vio 
late any confidence in relating the his 
tory of the voyage of The Last Slave- 
ship. 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



SOMEONE, it seems to me, ought to point 
out to certain optimistic critics of our mi 
nor literature that there is a great and 
vital difference between taking one s art 
seriously and taking one s self, the artist, 
so. In Mr. Howells s recent defence of con 
temporary writers, for instance, in reply to 
Mr. Phelps s paper in this Magazine, they 
were most excellently championed on the 
safe ground of sincerity of effort and non- 
mercenary aims; but there is one accusa 
tion, perhaps only implicitly made, if at all, 
in Mr. Phelps s indictment, though often 
elsewhere, to which I should like to hear 
this most kindly advocate plead for his 
clients that of the self-consciousness of 
much of the work from which he looks for 
great results. 

It is almost a waste of time to say that 
this does not apply to Mr. Howells himself, 
or to his type of workers. If he has given 
us occasion lately, by his criticism and per 
formance, to wonder whether he had re 
versed the old saying, to make it read video 
deteriora proboque, meliora sequor, he has 
never left a reader in doubt that in him at 
least the cause the aim of what he was do 
ing obliterated every smaller consideration 
and left him free to use his art at its best. 
And, indeed, there is no reason at all to 
drag him into this bit of ungrateful medita 
tion, except that he takes his native con 
temporaries at the pitch of their aspira 
tions rather than their deeds, and so rouses 
the latent spirit of the advocatus diaboli that 
is in every one of us. 

It may be that the present generation of 
VOL. VIII. 12 



younger writers is destined to great achieve 
ment : Heaven send it and on the whole 
I for one fully believe it of a goodly num 
ber. But was there ever a generation that 
made such an ado over its own attitude and 
deportment about its work ? or that had in 
some respects so large an alloy of the artifi 
cial in its frame of mind ? Perhaps it is only 
the over-expectant critic who especially no 
tices the solemnity of this squaring of the 
elbows, of this discussion of technic the 
" short-story form " (note well the hyphen) ; 
the " cycle" of novels (with prefatory refer 
ences to the Comedie humaine or the recur 
rence of the Warrington strain from Es 
mond " to " The Newcomes " I should have 
liked to have Thackeray hear it called a 
" cycle," by the way) : the machinery of 
dedications, prologues, and epilogues ; in 
fine, the whole disproportion of the cackle 
to the size of the be-cackled eggs, of how 
ever excellent quality the latter may be. 
Perhaps such a critic is dyspeptic, and per 
haps he reads too much of the self-con 
sciousness of the processes into the results 
an easy matter ; but enough of his belief 
is time, nevertheless, to make it worthy of 
the notice of more sanguine souls. There 
can hardly be too strong a desire for a good 
technic, for a thorough mastery of the tools 
of one s work ; certainly there cannot be 
too strong a self-respect in a man of letters, 
if in any man ; but self-respect is perfectly 
compatible with humility before one s task ; 
and as for technic, it ought to be remem 
bered that it is not the work itself ; as the 
White Knight said to Alice in " Through the 



130 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



Looking-glass," " That isn t the song, it is 
only what it is called." 

The younger French writers, whose per 
fection of technical skill Mr. Howells and 
those he praises alike rightly admire, have 
made themselves such masters of their art 
that they are virtually unconscious of its 
exercise ; but however much they may have 
talked its argot within the "groups, "one 
does not notice that they make much pub 
lic exhibition of the processes by which the 
mastery is acquired. Still less does any 
one of them magnify the fact that he is go 
ing to do a thing above the doing of the 
thing itself ; or forget that the ars celare 
artem cannot be successfully carried out 
while the artist believes that his personality, 
at any rate, is too important a thing to be 
concealed. 

IT is prodigious what an amount of energy 
is sunk in the unsuccessful exercise of that 
inalienable right, the pursuit of happiness. 
One reason for the waste is that people are 
governed too much by the opinions of oth 
ers as to what is pleasure, and neglect to get 
information that would fit them by analyz 
ing their own experiences. Thousands and 
tens of thousands of people do things day 
after day with the purpose of enjoyment, 
which they never have enjoyed, and never 
will, but which they have learned to regard 
as intrinsically pleasant. They ride horses, 
they drive, hunt, dress, dance, or whatever 
it is, not because they get personal enjoy 
ment out of those occupations, but because 
other people have enjoyed them. 

Of course, happiness is a state of mind ; 
and it is the mind, or the soul, that we want 
to get at. "We know this well enough theo 
retically, but fail to act with reasonable in 
telligence upon our knowledge. To a cer 
tain extent, the mind is dependent for its 
states upon the conditions of the body, and 
we are rightly taught that a degree of atten 
tion must be paid to physical means if we 
are to get intellectual or spiritual results. 
But even with the enjoyment of a healthy 
body a very important share of the pleasure 
is quasi-intellectual. When he has well 
eaten or well drunken a man feels pleasantly 
disposed toward the world. His feelings 
warm, his sympathies are aroused, and he 
is happy in consequence. 

The exhilaration of the racer or the 



huntsman, of the oarsman or the football 
player, any high degree of muscular activ 
ity in a healthy man, is perhaps the nearest 
to a purely physical pleasure ; but even here 
it is a higher enjoyment when it is competi 
tive activity, for competition itself is a not 
able and legitimate delight. "Rejoiceth 
as a strong man to run a race," the Script 
ure saith, and knows its business as usual ; 
for trying to win involves a chance to lose, 
and that there is not much fun where there 
is not some hazard has been the rule since 
Eve acquired knowledge of evil at the same 
bite with good. 

Of those purely intellectual joys that 
are analogous to the physical joys, not all are 
healthy. It is fun to develop and exercise 
the mind just as it is to exercise the mus 
cles ; but there are joys of the intellectual 
glutton and the intellectual sot, joys that 
are not nearly as disreputable as they ought 
to be. Minds are clogged with over-feed 
ing and racked by over-stimulation, just as 
stomachs are. The joys of acquisition are 
not to be despised. Making money is 
mighty pleasant ; to have things is an un 
questionable source of satisfaction ; to col 
lect rare commodities, orchids, race-horses, 
railroad-bonds, is a kind of sport that thou 
sands of people follow with lively enthusi 
asm. It is fun to have and to hold, to add 
to and complete, and it has been since who 
knows how many centuries before Ahab 
longed for Naboth s vineyard. But avarice 
in all its forms, old-fashioned and venerable 
as it is, is only a second-rate sport, since it 
lacks the element that the greatest pleas 
ures must have, the element of love. 

Not passion. Passion is one of your sec 
ond-rate, quasi-physical pleasures, which 
are half pain, and cannot be depended upon. 
But love is quite a different matter, and so 
detached from all that is bodily about us, 
as to breed the hope that it will still be a 
pleasure to us when we have taken our 
bodies off. When we have loved the most, 
and with the least passion and the least 
selfishness, was it not then that we attained 
most nearly to the state of mind which is 
the great prize of life ? 

Is it a matter of general knowledge that 
to love in this fashion is the best fun agoing ? 
Is it part of the ordinary experience of the 
average man, so that it is safe to take it for 
granted that every reader of this screed can 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



131 



recall times in his life when there was a 
magic light on all he saw, and magic music 
in all he heard ? It is a common remark in 
extenuation of the inconvenience of not hav 
ing very much money that people of ordi 
nary fortune can eat as much as million 
aires ; and if we find that we can love as 
easily and as extensively on small incomes 
as on greater ones, we may safely consider 
that we have the better of the rich again. 
Perhaps we can ; wealth offers so many di 
versions that sometimes the pleasure there 
is in loving is overlooked. The impression 
certainly exists that great riches have a ten 
dency to clog the affections ; and great in 
equalities of fortune are a barrier between 
man and man, not insurmountable but ap 
preciable. Love is personal, and very great 
possessions almost inevitably throw per 
sonal qualities into shadow. We love men 
for what they are, not what they represent. 
We cultivate the muscles because it is fun 
to use them, and because it brings us the 
happiness that comes of health. For like 
reasons we make a business of the cultiva 
tion of our minds. How simple it is of us 
to neglect to the extent that most of us do 
the systematic cultivation of our hearts! 
Now and then someone discovers that to 
love one s neighbor with enthusiasm is the 
best fun there is, and makes a business of 
doing it ; and then the rest of us lean on 
our muck-rakes and gape at him, and won 
der how he can spare so much time for such 
an object. 



THE imagination of Mr. Grant Allen con 
tinues to be distressed by a learned phan 
tom in petticoats who tries to earn her own 
living, and is supposed to think meanly of 
the natural vocations of her sex. In a re 
cent magazine article he records his fears 
that if the theories of the advanced women 
are not checked, the invaluable faculty of 
intuition, which is a distinguishing feminine 
characteristic, will be educated away, with 
the direful result that men of genius will 
cease to be born. For the intuitive faculty 
pertains to genius as well as to femininity. 
Genius does not stop to reason. It arrives, 
by a sudden and immediate process which 
it inherited from its mother. It knows, it 
knows not how. It only knows that it 
knows, as women do. 



It would be a dreadful pity to have genius 
stumbling about in limbo for lack of a 
woman fit to be a mother to it. Let us 
hope it will not really come to such a for 
lorn extreme as that. Would it be inex 
cusable to derive the impression from Mr. 
Grant Allen s magazine articles, that, learn 
ed as he is in natural history, his knowledge 
of the human female is defective ? To my 
mind she seems to be constructed of much 
tougher materials than Mr. Allen imagines, 
and the influences that tend to make a man 
of her seem enormously overbalanced by 
those whose tendency is to keep her a 
woman. For my part I am not a bit afraid 
but that when God made woman He en 
dowed her with persistence enough to 
maintain the characteristics of her sex. 
Monkeys may have evolutionized into Her 
bert Spencers ; but have the females of any 
species ever yet evolutionized into males ? 
Of course there are masculine women; 
women afflicted from birth with mannish 
minds and predisposed to channels of use 
fulness which are more commonly navigated 
by men. Such women are not all Sally 
Brasses either. Some of them even pre 
sume to marry and have children. But 
they are exceptional creatures, and are eas 
ily counter-balanced by the feminine men. 
The average woman is a thorough-going 
woman, and is not to be educated out of it. 
You may teach her Latin, you may let her 
operate a type-writer, or teach school, or 
work in a factory, or dot off language by 
telegraph, and become as independent as 
you please. She is a persistent female still. 
If Mr. Allen will only stir up his males, 
and see to it that they are competent, faith 
ful, and good providers, he may cease to 
distress himself. The proportion of the 
gentler sex who insist upon reasoning by 
logical processes and competing with men 
in bread -winning avocations, will not be 
great enough to afford him legitimate dis 
tress. Take care of your men, Mr. Allen, 
and your women won t have to take care of 
themselves. And if they don t have to, 
they won t do it. The fact that some 
women who have no one else to take care 
of them are taught to take care of them 
selves seems a remote reason for alarm. A 
woman even with blunted intuitions is 
better than a woman under six feet of 
earth. 



132 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



APROPOS of successful achievement, it has 
been said that those who succeed are those 
who go on after they are tired. The ob 
servation bears a family likeness to the one 
about genius being the capacity for taking 
infinite pains, and both amount simply to 
this, that the people who arrive are those 
who don t have to stop until they get there. 
To many of us it happens that there are bits 
of thought sometimes they are bits of 
verse that come into the mind when it is 
too tired to follow them up. It can just 
grasp them and go no further. Such waifs 
are like the feathers that enthusiastic little 
boys who chase chickens on the farm find 
in their hands when the bird that they 
have almost run down gets away. Cuvier, 
they say, could construct a whole skeleton 
from a single bone, but it isn t told even of 
him that he could fix up a whole chicken 
from a few tail-feathers. Nevertheless, 
these intellectual relics are not to be wholly 
despised. Feathers that do not assume to 
be complete birds may still have a second 
ary sort of merit as feathers. 

An odd lot of such strays that turned up 
the other day in the corner of a drawer, in 
cluded some pennce, that in hands entirely 
great might have come to something. One 
that seems to have been begotten of an in 
quiry into the grounds of contemporary re 
nown makes such an appearance as this : 

So mixed it is, a body hardly knows 
If fame is manufactured goods, or grows. 
Douce man is he whose sense the point imparts 
Where advertising ends and glory starts. 

Another grasp of plumage, gleaned, it 
would seem, in another chase after this 
same bird, disclosed this : 



And here the difference lies, in that, whereas 
What a man did was measure of his glory 

In those gone days, now gauged by what he has 
He reads his title clear to rank in story. 



The patriot lives, obscure, without alarms ; 

The poet, critics tell us, smoothly twaddles. 
The patent-tonic man it is who storms 

The heights of noise, and fame s high rafter straddles ! 
Soap is the stuff 

With the rest of that last broken feather 
the bird in the hand became the bird in the 
bush. In the next lot: 

No saint s physiognomy goes to my soul 

Like the features that beam from that brown aureole 

suggests a quest after some female bird; 
and this also seems to belong to the same 
theme : 

More welcome than shade on a hot summer day 

Is the shadow she casts when she s coming my way. 

You can see she s a goddess ! Just look at her walk ! 

I own I adore her : there s bones in her talk ! 

Defend me from virgins whose talking is tattle, 

Whose ears are mere trash-bins, whose tongues merely 

rattle ; 

Whose brains are but mush, and their judgment a sieve- 
Invertebrate discourse is all they can give. 
What profits mere beauty where intellect fails ? 
Oh, give me the woman whose mind will hold nails ! 

That was quite a grasp of plumage to be 
sure. 

When the tennis ball skims by the fault-finding net 

is an odd feather from some fleet male 
bird, perhaps, who got easily away. 

Not as dry as vast Sahara, 
Just a sand-bank in July, 

suggests a parched throat, and seems mas 
culine too ; and so does the sudden ter 
minal curve of 

One cannot be a dying swan 
Offhand. 

It seems as if there might still be fun 
enough in some of the birds that shed 
these things to pay for another chase, if 
only one could get sight of them. The 
worst of these fowl though, is that the best 
feathers and the longest legs seem to go 
together. It takes quick steps and a power 
of endeavor to catch ostriches. 






DRAWN BY E. H. BLASHFIELD. 



EXQUISITES OF D ARTAGNAN S TIME. 
[The Gardens of the Luxembourg.] 



ENGRAVED BY WITTB. 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VHI. 



AUGUST, 1890. 



No. 2. 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 

By E. H. and E. W. Blashfield. 




N lading down the 
sixth volume of the 
Vicomte de Brage- 
lonne, after follow 
ing D Artagnan 
from when the Gas 
con stripling rides 
into Meung upon 
his father s cher 
ished " orange-col 
ored horse" to 
where the grizzled 
captain dies Marshal of France, his ba 
ton broken by the shot which shatters 
his breast, one feels that the friends 
with whom one has fought and galloped 
through eleven volumes must be real. 
Our thoughts still linger in the ante 
chambers of the Louvre, the shaded 
walks of Fontainebleau, the hostelries 
of the Boulogne road. The hoof-beats 
have not quite died away, the swords 
are not yet quite quiet in their scab 
bards ; we remember gallants and ladies 
laced and beribboned, and turn regret 
fully to modern streets, where all the 
world seems to have gone into mourn 
ing, as if the great cardinal had just is 
sued another sumptuary law and sent 
the silks and satins of puce and cramoi- 
si to join the gold galoons and velvets 
of other edicts. But a moment ago and 
D Artagnan was at our elbow ; Richelieu 
in the Palais Royal ; a little Louis XIV. 
at play in the garden of the Tuileries ; 
but the book is closed the musketeer 
who has so long stood sentry, keeping 
the door of the past against the present, 
fades away and follows king, cardinal, 



and captain into retirement, in the qui 
et National Library, where behind the 
dusty glasses of the cases the leonine 
wigs still curl, the laces still flow over 
the armor, in the extension of life which 
the cunning burin of Nanteuil has ac 
corded them. If the people are gone, 
their town, at least in part, remains, and 
their memory with it ; the monuments 
stand on the squares, soldier and mag 
istrate alike shine in marble in the 
dusky church corner, and we may follow 
in the footsteps of Athos and Porthos, 
Aramis and D Artagnan about that Par 
is of Louis Xin. which still shows in the 
older quarters of the city of to-day like 
some ancient manuscript beneath the 
commonplace accounts of daily life that 
later men have written there. 

The epoch of 1627 to 1660 in France, 
the background against which Dumas s 
heroes stand, was not a noble one. The 
spirit of the Renaissance, the reawaken 
ing of thought and inquiry, had done its 
work in the south, and sweeping north 
ward stood triumphant and portentous 
in England, Holland, and Sweden, before 
the laurelled helmets that followed Crom 
well and Gustavus Adolphus. In Italy, 
Spain and France, grand adventure, the 
quest of continents, the discovery of new 
worlds, had degenerated into the petty 
exploits of the duellist and intriguer, 
and in them the seventeenth century 
stands like a stagnant marsh between 
the mighty river of the Renaissance and 
the torrent of the Revolution. 

One vigorous personality was born of 
these new conditions. Out of the dull 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



136 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



emptiness of the times, out of the its opposite sides the king had buc- 

dreary record of aimless conspiracies, kled firmly with two great chateaux 

invasions, famines, and persecutions, a castle palace to hold himself, the 

springs a striking figure, cloaked, boot- Louvre ; a castle prison to hold his ene- 




Costume of Musketeers in the Time of Bragelonne. 
(With Louvre in seventeenth century.) 



ed, and spurred, his hand on his rapier, 
his moustachios turned straight up to 
heaven, ready to ride, to drink, to fight ; 
gay, fearless, honorable, according to 
his code, a material and very individ 
ual type, which we call to all time the 
cavalier the type of Athos, Porthos, 
Aramis, and D Artagnan the darling of 
his age, and realizing daily its one su 
preme ideal, " un beau coup d epee," a 
good sword-stroke. This type Dumas 
has multiplied into a quadruple fasces 
of human achievement ; his heroes ride 
through a cycle of eleven volumes, with 
Richelieu before La Rochelle, with 
Charles I. in England, with the court of 
the young Louis XIV. at Fontainebleau 
and St. Germain, and above all in Paris. 
This Paris of the Musketeers was a 
small city ; a crowded, thickset town, 
bristling with towers, still wearing its 
girdle of ramparts, a girdle which upon 



mies, the Bastille. The latter is gone, 
and the former would not be recognized 
by our Musketeers could they see it 
now. Even before their time it had be 
gun to throw off its feudal gloom and 
appear in Renaissance cheerfulness, just 
as the gentlemen who rode with D Ar 
tagnan cast away the heavy cuirass of 
olden times and went to the assault in 
cloak and doublet ; but it still, in place 
of the long galleries we see to-day, kept 
walls, gates, and battlements, and was a 
fortress. Between the Louvre and the 
frowning eastern sentinel, the Bastille, 
lay the town. There the burgesses 
worked and married and buried, in 
their net-work of tiny streets, threaded 
at tolerably regular intervals by long, 
narrow thoroughfares, named after the 
saints, or those scarcely less great per 
sonages the nobles, packed with houses 
crowding together till they seemed strug- 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



137 



gling up on each other s shoulders to get 
out of the press, and glad enough of 
the breathing space given them now 
and then by some convent garden ; for 
although convents were plentiful, they 
were generally pushed out a little upon 
the skirts of commerce, and with their 
long, blank, garden-walls made streets 
ugly by day and dangerous by night in 
their convenience for the foot-pad and 
assassin. Paris still had its triple divis- 



venerable assemblage of colleges, and 
where the architects were hard at work 
upon a new Paris, building the Sor- 
bonne for Eichelieu, the Luxembourg 
for the queen-mother, and laying the 
foundations of St. Sulpice. 

The city upon its island venerable 
descendant of the Lutetia of the Parisii, 
august with the double headship of 
Church and State, bearing at once the 
crosier and the mace, the cathedral and 




A Street of Old Paris. 



ion of town, city, and university ; the 
last lay to the south of the Seine, about 
the mountain of Saint Genevieve, where 
the school of Abelard had crown into a 



the Palace of Justice was a mass of 
towers and pinnacles. 

There the mother church of Notre 
Dame rose above Paris, not as now on its 



138 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 




V 



IHw ft 

Jcto^dteF^r-T^jig 

H fc ----- 




Swiss Guards Fencing with Halberds. 
(The Bastille in the background.) 



wide modern parvis, but crowded most 
of all by hovels huddling around its base, 
like the poor struggling to touch the 
raiment of Christ. 

Thicker than anywhere else, the streets 
pressed about the Hotel de Ville, the 
centre of the town, but not yet the true 
heart of Paris, and beating but feebly, 
close as it was to the fires of La Greve, 
the place of execution ; it beat, never 
theless, and in the neighboring Palace 



of Justice, in D Artagnan s own days, 
were men as brave as any Musketeer, 
and who first of all Frenchmen cried, 
" Live the Commonwealth ! " 

The tourist of to-day hardly goes into 
D Artagnan s Paris, and never lives in 
the heart of it ; he skirts it upon the 
grand boulevards, lodges often at one 
of the great hotels which are upon its 
edge in the quarter of the Louvre, and 
crosses it to go to the Hotel de Ville, 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



139 



Notre Dame, or the Luxembourg. But 
the narrow tortuous lanes of the old 
times are inconvenient for circulation ; 
he is driven along the main arteries and 
hardly sees the historic streets at all. 
He may live for years in Paris and never 
pass through them ; his cab-driver knows 
but avoids them; while to him, as to the 
modern Parisienne, the Louvre means 
the grands magasins du Louvre. These 
are the high altars of feminine adora 
tion, and to many visitors their line of 
nouveautes far outshines the dimmed 
splendor of the historic fleurs-de-lys in 
the great building opposite, and the 
quarter is consecrated rather by bar 
gains than by recollections. And yet 
this old Paris is vastly interesting and 
easy to visit too ; D Artagnan would 
have stared at its modern map, and 
would hardly have found the city of 
1648 upon it ; for of the one hundred 



bank of the Seine cut straight across the 
garden of the Tuileries, sliced off a cor 
ner of the present Palais Royal gardens, 
ran northeast to the boulevards, then 
really what their name signifies forti 
fied ramparts and followed them to the 
Bastille. Even during the youth of the 
Musketeers these walls had grown elas 
tic, and sieges of great cities were out 
of fashion ; Henry H. had lowered the 
walls, and Kichelieu breached them to 
make way for the Palais Cardinal, which 
his last will changed into the Palais Royal 
and property of the king. The bour 
geois life had flowed over the ramparts 
long since, or struggled out through 
the fortified gates into the faubourgs, 
but it is mainly within their antique 
limits that the old houses are found to- 
da} r , by hundreds, from the Bastille to 
the Louvre, and from the Boulevard St. 
Denis to St. Germain des Pres ; they 







The " Coucher du Roi. 



and eight or so of ruled squares, which 
barely include the metropolis of to-day, 
a dozen cover the town of the Musket 
eers, the walls of which upon the right gowns 



are easily recognizable, for they thrust 
themselves out at the girdle like the gen 
tlemen and ladies who wore the wadded 
and doublets of 1627. Look at 



140 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



the people in the engravings of Bosse, 
see how they all hold themselves, bend 
ing backward from the waist ; then 
glance down some old street, and where 



his houses were lined and squared by 
Lemercier and Mansart. On all sides 
you find these old buildings sheltering 
their modern shops in the dull little Rue 




Costume of the Corps of the Black Musketeers. 
(In the time of Richelieu.) 



the houses lean back like so many but 
tresses, there you may be sure the cava 
lier walked and rode and drank. In and 
out the houses straggle, nowise in line, 
like the soldiers of Louis XIII., where 
every man wore what uniform he pleased 
so that he fought ; while the troops of 
Louis XIV. were struck all arow and 
alike by the drill-sergeant s staff, just as 



Guenegaud, where Athos stopped in 
1648, at the sign of the Grand Charle 
magne ; in the Hue de Vieux Colombier, 
where the Odeon busses rattle under the 
towers of St. Sulpice, and where Athos 
again, in 1660, with the young Brage- 
lonne, put up his horses in a quarter of 
shops filled to-day with church appurten 
ances, chalices, fonts, and candlesticks 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



141 



that would have furnished forth Aramis 
in his Breton bishopric, and with haloed 
statues much like the image de Notre 
Dame above the door of D Artagnan s 
cabaret of the Place de Greve. There 
are still windows looking upon the 
statue of Henry IV. that may have seen 
Harcourt and Fontrailles hiding on the 
crupper of the great bronze horse to 
steal the burghers cloaks ; narrow 
streets in the Marais that echoed the 
scuffle when the gentlemen banded them 
selves together to rid the quarter of 
Marion Delorme of the foot-pads that in 
fested it. The ancient fa9ades are plen 
tiful still about the central markets, and 
their ancient owners are remembered. 
Colbert kneels in marble in St. Eustache, 
and there are tablets and busts upon old 
houses to Moliere and to Rousseau. 
Jean Goujon s lovely fountain still stands 
a monument to him in the Place des 
Innocents close by, thougji the ribbon 
shops are gone which in D Artagnan s 
days did a thriving business light upon 
the charnel-houses that surrounded the 
square, showing openly their piles of 
grinning skulls to a populace which still 
inherited the mediaeval and ghastly com 
bination of indifference to, and fascina 
tion for, mortuary signs. 

Thickest of all these souvenirs in stone 
and mortar stand in the part of the town 
which lies between the Hotel de Ville and 
the Bastille, and where the little shops 
of a now humble quarter have burrowed 
into battered remains of stately old pal 
aces, like Samson s bees in the carcass of 
the lion. The Renaissance goddesses, 
who saw the great King Henry walking 
with his minister in the sumptuous court 
yard of the Hotel de Sully, now see 
the washerwomen hanging their linen 
upon the heavy carving of its fayades ; 
school-boys play under the masks and 
friezes of the Hotel d Ormesson, and girls 
behind the gorgeous restored sculptures 
of the Lavalette. Between the Gothic 
towers of the palace of the Archbishops 
of Sens is a sign in huge letters, " to let 
for commerce or manufactures ; " while 
the tower of John the Fearless, rising 
from that famous Hotel de Bourgogne, 
theatre of Mazarin s Italian comedians, 
now also forms part of a school and is 
shored up with great beams. Only the 
lovely Hotel Carnavalet has continued 
VOL. VIII. 14 



to be worthy of its ancient memories, 
though its mistress from 1689 to 1696, 
the charming Madame de Sevigne, would 
have been strangely surprised to see 
this shelter of whole lines of nobles 
turned into a " Museum of the French 
Revolution ; " her genealogical tree made 
to furnish wood to house the axe that 
was laid to its root. These old streets 
have changed so little that it is easy 
to half shut the eyes and see them as 
they were ; the Kue Tiquetonne, for in 
stance, where D Artagnan lived. Time, 
that deadly duellist, has let rapier holes 
through old Paris, and has opened the 
wide Rue Turbigo from the central mar 
kets to the Place de la Republique, but 
the Rue Tiquetonne has just escaped. 
There are wine-shops galore in it ; in 
deed they flourish throughout the city. 
The blue blouses of to-day press about 
the thick glass tumblers as eagerly as 
the buff coats and ribboned pourpoints 
leaned over the tables where the wooden 
mugs and pewter tankards were spread. 
They are old, old shops, some of them ; 
drooping feathers of wide felt hats have 
dragged in the wine lees on their 
benches, and great spurs have clinked 
over their door-sills ; in one corner is a 
triangular, vine-covered, balconied roof 
where Athos and Porthos have certainly 
sat drinking toward sunset, and watched 
for D Artagnan to come riding along the 
street to the sign of the Kid. It was 
a pleasant enough place, doubtless, to 
look down from upon seventeenth-cen 
tury life, for then the little streets were 
thoroughfares, and below our Musketeers 
was the whole jostle and push of Paris 
the street venders with their wares ; the 
page carrying his master s falcon to be 
dosed ; the long-gowned magistrate, his 
books borne before him by his lackey; the 
monk, haggling with the cobbler over 
the price of his patched sandal ; the pro 
vost-guard, gay in the particolored 
blue and white and red of the city s liv 
ery; ladies in high-hipped gowns; exqui 
sites with lace covering even the seams 
of their garments, and treading carefully 
on high pattens, strapped under soft 
boots, from the funnel-like tops of which 
cascades of lace escaped boots bearing 
always the heavy spurs, sometimes of 
massive silver, and " changing often with 
the fashion," since it was an equestrian 



142 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



age, and these cavaliers, horseless, but 
all astride the hobby of dandyism, would 
as soon have worn their scabbards with 
out swords as their boots without spurs. 
Sometimes a glittering squadron of 
gendarmes passed, covered with steel 
from head to knee in the last survival 
of armor, in deference to royal prejudice, 
despite a soldiery who hated it for its 
weight, and above all for the destruc 
tion which the visored helmet caused to 
the long locks that floated upon the 
shoulders of gentleman and burgess 
alike, and to the fierce mustachios, 
turned straight upward by assiduous use 
of that little instrument called the bigo- 
tera, and which one sees borne by Cupid 
behind the hearse in Voiture s Funeral 
of the Dandy. 

Take the Hue St. Denis of to-day, 
suppress the sidewalks and almost sup 
press the pavement, fill the windows 
with swinging signs, touch the huge Pa 
risian omnibus with a Cinderella s wand 
till it becomes the gilded coach of Louis 
XIV., diminish the number of vehicles, 
increase that of the horsemen, and you 
have the Rue St. Denis of Richelieu and 
Mazarin. By the middle of the seven 
teenth century chariots, as they were 
called, lumbered about the streets in such 
increased numbers as greatly surprised 
Bassompierre, returning from the Bas 
tille after years of imprisonment, for 
Fiacre had commenced to let cabs and 
had given them his name, and soon phi 
losophy, turning aside to the economic 
problem of cheap transportation, a "Pen- 
se"e " of Pascal was presented to the world 
in the shape of the omnibus, or carosse d 
cinq sous. The Due de Roannez in 1661 
exploited this Pensee ; but although busi 
ness in many forms was permitted to the 
great, provided it bore the name of Priv 
ilege, the omnibus soon fell into dis 
favor "the century was not yet ripe 
for the principle of equality it involved." 
The private carriages, or chariots, were 
huge vehicles seating eight or more com 
fortably ; such was the one, so eagerly 
watched by the Musketeers as it was 
driven at full gallop along the Faubourg 
St. Antoine, from the gate to the Car 
melites Convent, with poor little Ma 
dame Bonacieux peeping from its win 
dow a huge machine of wood, and 
leather, and great nails, and Genoa velvet 



curtains, with its wheels inordinately 
far apart, a perambulating room big 
enough for a whole family. The later 
coaches which rolled out daily to St. 
Germain or Fontainebleau in long pro 
cession of six horses to each, the queens 
and maids of honor within, the young 
Louis riding at the portiere of La Valliere 
were equally large, but masterpieces of 
elegance in detail, and may still be seen 
at the Museum of Cluny or in the sta 
bles of Versailles. The Rue St. Denis 
often heard the trumpets of the Maison 
du Roi, and saw the famous company, 
called, from the color of their horses, 
the Black Musketeers, riding, one hun 
dred gentlemen in files of four, with 
Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D Artagnan 
in the ranks, their renowned captain, 
Monsieur de Treville right hand of the 
King and redoubted enemy of two car 
dinals in advance, and just behind the 
scarlet casaques of the trumpeters. At 
first they were the Royal Carbineers, but 
soon carried the musket, and under their 
third commander, Monsieur de Treville, 
or Troisvilles, to whom we are intro 
duced in the first chapters of the Mus 
keteers, they became the famous corps 
of the story pre-eminently a corps 
d elite. Sons of dukes enlisted as pri 
vates, and D Artagnan is careful to tell 
us more than once that the captain of 
the King s Musketeers had precedence 
of the marshals of France. 

Their equipment was splendid, its dis 
tinctive sign being a light blue casaque 
with a large silver cross on breast, back, 
and sleeves ; they also wore the wide 
plumed hat, and the high soft boot 
reaching the thigh, while in Bragelonne s 
time they already had the stiff jack-boots 
those enormous boots which ran af 
ter the English at Fontenoy and away 
from them at Blenheim ; which splashed 
through Flanders, tramped into hostel- 
ries and over battle-fields, and bestrode 
the horses of Vandermeulen s pictures. 

Treville was the avowed enemy of 
Richelieu, Mazarin inherited the quarrel, 
and succeeded, in the time elapsing be 
tween the novels of the Musketeers and 
Twenty years after, in breaking and dis 
missing the company. But Louis XIV. 
soon reinstated it, adding a second 
squadron, of which he was the titular 
captain, and which made a brave show 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



143 



in 1660 at his entry into Paris, when the 
real D Artagnan of the memoirs tells us 
that his horse wore a small fortune in 
ribbons. 

The spot which has changed the least 
in all the city since the Musketeers met 
there in 1647, after twenty years of sep 
aration, is the sunny, spacious Place 
Boyale, now Place des Vosges. It was 
the resort of fashionable Paris in the 
days of Louis the Just. On the site of 
the old Palais des Tournelles, destroyed 
by Catherine de Medici after her young 
husband met his death there from Mont- 
gomeri s splintered lance, Henry IV. 
built the quadrangle of houses which re 
main unchanged since the workmen set 
the medallion of the great King s kindly, 
bearded face against the central fayade, 
or since a certain Marie Babutin de 
Chantal opened her eyes on the world 
in one of these same hotels. The eques 
trian statue of Louis XIII. , half nude 
and heroic, with tunic and buskins, rode 
there in marble in D Artagnan s time, 
just as the modern copy does to-day, 
necked by the sunlight through the 
trees that cluster thickly about it. The 
sullen Medicean face under its flowing 
hair looks over the gay flower-beds, the 
fountains, and the long line of steep 
gray roofs toward the little Church of 
the Visitation, where Mademoiselle de la 
Fayette, the only woman poor Louis 
ever loved, took the veil. 

Under the arcades about the quad 
rangle are fascinating glimpses into quiet 
courts where caged birds sing in the 
sun and plants stand about fountains, 
where Bosse s coquettish maid-servants 
might fill their pewter nipperkins : 
courts that suggest a score of pictures. 
A languid precieuse should lean from 
the casement between the Benaissance 
masks and scroll-work ; Mascarille and 
Scapin wait for Dorante and Leandre ; 
gilded coaches roll under the portal, or 
a swaggering cavalier with a cartel 
lounges at the door. The whole square 
is a picture even to-day, when children 
play where gentlemen once fought ; re 
tired grocers and linen-drapers read 
their newspapers under the trees, and 
Monsieur Prud homme laughs over his 
Figaro, where Malherbe and Ninon 
walked and talked. The high-pitched 
roofs, crowning the old pink and yellow 



and brown fayades, are exquisitely deli 
cate and soft in color ; and over it all, 
above the gray velvet of the house-tops, 
is the pearly, low-lying sky so familiar 
to lovers of Paris. 

Aramis s fashionable world was true 
to its, own dominant passion in choosing 
the Place Boyale for its duels and its 
promenades. From the early sixteenth 
century the Square had been a place of 
combat, the closed lists of the tour 
nament ; and bloody memories clung to 
it, which endeared it to the cavaliers. 
There Henry H. was killed, there the 
bravest mignons of Henry III. fell in the 
famous duel with Anjou s gentlemen, and 
were buried near by in the church of St. 
Paul St. Louis, with great pomp, dis 
consolate royalty writing their epitaph. 
There in D Artagnan s own day, and 
in defiance of the king s edict, dictated 
by Bichelieu, and sorely needed at a 
time when, in twenty years (ten of which 
were spent in active warfare), more 
French gentlemen had been killed in 
the duel than by the enemy the Counts 
of Boutteville and Chapelle, out of pure 
bravado, fought under the placarded 
edict, and afterward expiated their dis 
obedience on the scaffold. Later, and 
under a milder rule, came the blonde 
Duchesse de Longueville and Madame 
de Montbazon, rival Frondeuses, to 
watch the encounter between their re 
spective admirers, Guise and Coligny. 
Fortune, as usual, smiled on the Venus 
of the Fronde, whose lover, Guise, ran 
his opponent through. But it was not 
only the swashbucklers who haunted 
the place ; on pleasant days, after the 
early dinner, it was filled with the fine 
flower of seventeenth-century Paris. 
Marion Delorme aired her priceless 
laces under the arcades ; on the Square, 
Beautru, the unbeliever, saluted the 
crucifix as it passed, and when a friend 
exclaimed, "What, Beautru, are you 
then on better terms with the Lord ? " 
replied, " Oh ! we bow, but we don t 
speak." In spite of his atheism Beau 
tru was a royal favorite, as under Louis 
XHI., says La Bruyere, the courtier 
wore his own hair and was a free 
thinker, while under his successor he 
wore a wig and was a devotee ; Madame 
Scarron, who was to work this great 
change and " make religion the fashion," 



144 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



often crossed the Place on her way to 
and from the little apartment where 
her crippled husband ruled over polite 
Paris at those famous suppers where 
witticisms replaced roasts. Arthenice, 
foundress of the first French salon and 
mistress of the celebrated Hotel Ram- 
bouillet, seldom carne to the Square, for 
she rarely left the house that she had plan 
ned and built for herself and her circle of 
wits, and which served as model for the 
Luxembourg and half the fine hotels of 
Paris. In the Place Royale Bussy Rabu- 
tin paid his court to lovely Madame 
Miramion before he carried her off by 
force, like a hero or a villain of romance, 
and before our brave D Artagnan, the 
real Charles de Batz de Castelmore of 
the memoirs, rescued her. Bassompierre 
found many new things besides the car 
riages when he came there from the 
Bastille, after the long imprisonment, 
which must have been a sad trial to one 
so handsome, so elegant, and so witty 
that young men with pretensions to 
fashion or beauty were called Bassom- 
pierres. 

He was sadly out of fashion, however, 
until his first interview with the court 
tailor, for since he was king of the mode 
costume had undergone a radical change, 
and no doubt he found it hard to ad 
mire his successors. Foremost among 
them was Cadenet, Comte de Chaulnes, 
the first to wear the beribboned love 
lock much longer than the rest of the 
hair, which instantly became popular 
and was called, in his honor, the Caden- 
ette, as befitted a discovery which was the 
most famous exploit of this marshal of 
France. A little later another exquisite, 
the Duke of Harcourt, in whose suite 
the historic D Artagnan went to Eng 
land, appeared in the Place Royale with 
a great pearl in his left ear. Next day 
the price of pearls was doubled, and 
all the barber-surgeons in Paris were 
busy. Even the grave Charles Stuart of 
England followed this fashion when he 
sat to Vandyck ; its inventor was nick 
named Cadet la Perle, and when Mignard 
painted him in cuirass and sword-belt, 
he did not forget the famous ear-ring. 
Dandies are generally brave, and these 
gentlemen, recklessly careless of their 
lives, were extremely careful of their 
complexions, and spared no pains to 



soften and whiten the skin w r hich they 
constantly risked in the duel ; the hands 
that wielded sword and dagger were as 
smooth as a lady s, and dashing swords 
men slept in curl papers like Bob 
Acres. 

" Carving the fashion of a new doub 
let/ ordering laces in the Palais Royal, 
pondering over the choice of a ribbon 
or the setting of a jewel, occupied a 
large portion of a gentleman s time. A 
cavalier was no more ashamed of his 
love of dress or his use of cosmetics 
than is a modern Parisienne ; and the 
Cyprus scent, almond powder, and Span 
ish vermilion on his toilet-table did not 
prevent his risking life and limb in the 
service of his king or the defence of his 
honor. The French gentleman was far 
more mediaeval than the burgess ; and 
his ideas in regard to that same honor, 
in what it consisted and how it should 
be preserved, were some of them worthy 
of Don Quixote himself. To keep it, as 
he imagined, untarnished, he who had 
talked high-flown Phoebus with the 
precieuses overnight, would often, in the 
early morning, steal through the Place, 
his face muffled in his cloak, his plumed 
felt hat drawn well over the eyes, on his 
way to the deserted banks of the Seine, 
or the quiet stretch behind the convent 
of the barefooted Carmelites, where our 
friends first learned to know D Artag 
nan, and from such an errand he some 
times came back still more quietly, feet 
foremost, borne upon the shoulders of 
his lackeys. Young blood was hot in 
deed which needed such a deal of phle 
botomy, and society in a strange condi 
tion when the duel was not only a noble 
pastime, but, as a descendant of the old 
judicial combat, a criterion of truth, the 
only means of ascertaining which of two 
opinions was the correct one. Every 
difficulty was then a Gordian knot to be 
untied in the true Alexandrian manner, 
and cold steel was the sharpest and 
keenest of arguments, cutting through 
all sophistries and thrusting conviction 
home to the most obdurate. The pen 
was not yet mightier than the sword ; 
there was no writing to Tlie Times then ; 
no " personal interviewing " concerning 
private grievance, no pettifogging among 
gentlemen ; all differences, from creeds 
to the tying of shoe-knots, could only be 




Voi, VIII. 15 



146 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



settled in one way, and the cavalier used refusal by accompanying it with twelve 

his sword as instinctively as the insect pots of cypress powder and six bottles 

his sting. of orange-flower water. These generals 

But the moment the combatants met were worthy ancestors of the men who, 





Do you bite your tongue at me, sir ? " 



the plumed hats swept the ground in 
courteous salutation ; the compliments 
crossed each other like rapiers ; it was 
not until one of them was fairly con 
quered in gracious speech that the steel 
was unsheathed to take its part in this 
dual fence of word and weapons, for if 
they believed, like true Moslems, that 
"Paradise is found in the shadow of 
crossing swords," they had learned from 
the Spaniards the niceties of oriental 
politeness as well. These exchanges of 
civility often preceded the larger duel of 
the battle-field, and men who were to 
meet as enemies on the morrow vied 
with each other in courtesies. 

During the siege of Lerida the com 
mandant of that place sent ices and 
oranges every day to Conde, and at La 
Bochelle Buckingham presented Toiras 
with a dozen melons, and invited him to 
capitulate ; while the latter sweetened his 



at Fontenoy, hat in hand, saluted the 
English with, "Messieurs de la Garde, 
tirez les premiers." 

The cavalier has led us a long way 
from the Place Boy ale, where he saun 
tered and chatted and made love in a 
certain stately fashion, carefully follow 
ing the " carte du Tendre," that famous 
map of the region of tender sentiments, 
where every stage of the grand passion 
was indicated, from its birth in "the 
hamlet of Delicate Attentions" to its 
death in the " cold Lake of Indifference " 
or its attainment of supreme felicity on 
the "Mountain of Reciprocated Affec 
tion." A typical example of the fem 
inine counterpart of the cavalier, who 
shared with him the study of the carte, 
was Marie de Bohan, Duchesse de Chev- 
reuse. No personality of the time is 
more characteristic or better known 
than hers. Confidante of Anne of Aus- 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



147 



tria, friend of Buckingham, enemy of 
Richelieu, and catspaw of Spanish plot 
ters, she played a leading part in the 
events of two reigns. Intrigue in per 
son (and such a pretty person), con 
spiracy incarnate, giving more trouble 
to Eichelieu and Mazarin than half a 
dozen Chalais or Beauforts ; fertile in 
expedient as D Artagnan s self, a hard 
rider, an expert in the use of sword and 
pistol, wearing hose and doublet as often 
and as gracefully as gown and kirtle, 
the Frondeuse was a perverse and fasci 
nating personality, whom no historian 
of the seventeenth century can ignore, 
and who often was a prime mover of 
events. She was no Clor- 
inda, in spite of her manly 
accomplishments, but, light 
as a bit of thistle-down, 
floated on the wind of every 
caprice, and, utterly lack 
ing in principle or continu 
ity of purpose, used her 
lovers like so many chess 
men in the desperate games 
of chance in which she de 
lighted, outwitting the car 
dinals with the joyous in 
consequence of a child, 
and snarling Euro 
pean politics 
as lightly as 
she would 
tangle a skein 
of embroid 
ery silk. Un 
der Richelieu 
their scope 
was limited, 
but during 
the reign of 
his weaker 
su cc essor 
Me s dam e s 
Chevreuse, 
Longueville, 
Bouillon, and 
Mad emoi- 
selle were the 
queens of 
Paris and 
the Fronde. 

They were the acknowledged leaders of 
faction. To please Madame de Longue 
ville Turenne deserted the Royalists and 
served the Spaniard. After the surren 



der of Peronne the Marechal d Hocquin- 
court wrote to Madame de Montbazon, 
" Peronne est d la belle des belles." Gaston 
d Orleans sent a letter to the Frondeuses 
addressed to " Mesdames les comtesses, 
mar echales de camp dans I armee de ma 
fille contre le Mazarin" This same 
daughter, "la grande Mademoiselle" 
when the Parliament and the Princes 
refused to succor Conde, fighting at St. 
Antoine, opened the gates of Paris to 
the wounded and the fugitives, and hur 
rying to the Bastille turned its guns on 
the Royal army, though "that cannon- 
shot killed her husband," as Mazarin 
said, alluding to the projected marriage 




A Precieuse. 

(A lady receiving in bed and playing cards with her visitors in one of the reyelles or alcoves 
of the time the bed drawn from that of Queen Anne of Austria at Fontamebleau.) 

between Mademoiselle and her cousin, 
Louis XIV., which this bold act of hers 
rendered impossible. 

No picture of the Place Royale would 



148 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



be complete without one of these Ama 
zons ; but when she wore the buff boots 
and the cavalier s cloak, and rode with 
pistols in her holsters and a Spanish 
letter stitched into the lining of her 
doublet, Madame de Chevreuse, or de 
Longueville, would not have cared to 
pass through its gay crowds. When the 
"Frondeuse Duchesse," as D Artagnan 
called her, strolled with her train of ad 
mirers, heroes of the sword and the pen 
Conde, Conti, Turenne, and Marcillac 
Due de la Rochefoucauld, better known 
to posterity as the brilliant author of the 
"Maxims," she wore some such guise as 
that in which Nanteuil engraved her. 
Less stared at than Beaufort, whose 
massive shoulders and yellow curls 



Balzac, Malherbe (fortified against the 
cold by three doublets and eleven pairs 
of stockings), the young Corneille, Rich 
elieu s first academicians ; Mademoiselle 
de Scuderi, authoress of the famous 
novels " Cyrus " and " Clelie ; " and Mad 
emoiselle de Gournay, whom posterity 
remembers not because she wrote the 
" Ombre," but because her cat Piaillon 
and its four kittens were pensioned by 
Richelieu. 

In striking contrast to the jolly clerics 
of the type of Aramis or De Retz, an 
ominous figure sometimes crossed the 
Place, generally trudging along on foot 
as befitted a poor monk. As he ap 
proached the gay groups voices were 
hushed, the ladies bent low in billowy 




"W- 

If:/ i vpir / r- n - 
* IP, 

: 3IJ0 

aon : " * 
:| , 




^mgm^r K^C w-^- 

ilMlf&^ 






A Te Deum at Notre Dame. 
(Street costumes of 1648, the Epoch of " Vingt ans apres.") 



made him the idol of the market-w T omen, 
or his friend De Retz, the plotting 
Archbishop of Paris, "the least clerical 
of men," a whole Parnassus of poets 
passed on their way to the famous blue- 
room of the Hotel Rambouillet : Voiture, 



courtesies, the cavaliers feathers touch- 
ed the ground in lowest obeisance be- 
fore his gray Eminence the Cardinal s 
retriever. Galling indeed this deference 
must have been to the proud Bishop of 
Noyon, Clermont-Tonnerre, who, when 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



149 



very ill, prayed God to have mercy on Prodigal Sons, these allegorical figures 

his greatness, and who, when saying of the Four Elements, or the Seven Tem- 

mass, rebuked some young men who poral Works of Mercy, all in contem- 

were chatting together, with "How porary costume, the artist s patrons 

now, gentlemen, do you think it is a admired their own types and fashions. 




Court Costume of the period of Bragelonne, 1658. 



lackey who is saying mass for you?" 
Another more amiable clerical figure was 
that of the young Bossuet, who, at the 
age of twelve read his first sermon at 
the HcUel Rambouillet one evening after 
midnight, and of whom Voiture said : " I 
have never before seen anyone preach 
so early or so late." 

Though the nobles loved the Place 
Royale, royalty walked in state in the 
pleasaunce of the Luxembourg or the 
courts of the Louvre, and Richelieu and 
Mazarin preferred the quiet, green gar 
dens of the Palais Cardinal ; but there is 
one garden wherein nobles, cardinals, 
and royalty may be seen side by side, 
that "Jardin de la Noblesse Francaise, 
dans lequel ce pent cueillir leur maniere 
de Vetements," for which Abraham Bosse, 
"avec privilege da Hoi," collected the 
brightest flowers. To-day we find them 
pressed between the thick leaves, yel 
lowed by time, of huge red folios bla 
zoned dimly with tarnished fleurs-de- 
lys. In these precious old engravings, 
these Wise and Foolish Virgins, and 



Here we find Aramis in church, ele 
gantly devout, one knee on his velvet 
hassock, his dainty breviary under his 
arm, or offering the holy water to 
some fair penitent ; in a group of the 
"Guards of his most Christian Maj 
esty " D Artagnan twists his mous- 
tachios with a conquering air ; Miladi 
smiles, and waves her fan in the middle 
of a dance ; Madame Bonacieux trips 
through a busy street with a black mask 
over her pretty face, and a letter in her 
beribboned bodice ; in a wainscoted 
tapestried chamber, the leaded casement 
carefully closed, the huge door securely 
locked, Porthos s miserly flame counts 
her money ; the handsome noble giving 
alms at the door of a pleasant country 
house we like to believe is Athos, at 
Blois ; and we are sure that Porthos is 
the host who, with Mousqueton behind 
his chair, presides over the well-spread 
table in the " Banquet of Dives." 

It is pleasant to think that, perhaps, 
D Artagnan may have seen and handled 
these very engravings on his way across 



150 THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 

1^ ^^^HMBUMEF^ - 







Conspiracy. 



the Pont Neuf, or through the Cemetery 
of the Innocents, where they were sold, 
hung up in long rows like penny ballads, 
with a curious crowd before them. 

If we would make our bow at court, 
look at kings and queens and nobles, 
prim and stately, pranked out in coro 
nation robes and family jewels, Nanteuil 
will introduce us to the royal presence ; 
and if we love aristocrats superbly cos 
tumed and posed, we may study Mig- 
nard s portraits. Bosse s are more fa 
miliar and homely, with but little of 
the grand air ; his Anne of Austria has 
none of the beauty which bewitched 
Buckingham. The engraver could do but 
little with the dominant nose, the weak, 



retreating chin, and the full under-lip, 
so characteristic of her house, for her 
charm was all in her coloring, in the 
satin skin, the radiant complexion, and 
" the prettiest hand and arm in France," 
which the full half-sleeves, bordered 
with fine lace, set off admirably. She 
was quite aware of these advantages, 
and to the end of her life clung to the 
broad collars and cuffs that enhanced 
her fairness ; it was not until she was 
over forty years old that the long morn 
ings in bed, and the four hearty meals a 
day in which she delighted, transformed 
Buckingham s blonde goddess into a 
" grosse suissesse," according to De Retz, 
who in paying his court to her received 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



151 



the following advice from Madame de 
Chevreuse : Lose yourself in admiration 
of her fine skin and her pretty hand, 
and you can do what you like with 
her." 

Louis XIII. s thin, dark, melancholy 
face is a striking contrast to Anne s 
rounded fairness ; very Medicean is the 
long chin, the aquiline nose, the hollow, 
dark eyes, in which there is no trace of 
the kindly, debonair Henry IV. Al 
ways ill, and always taking medicine, 
caring only for the chase, from which he 
was often debarred by his poor health, 
surrounded by household enemies a 
wife, mother, and brother who con 
stantly plotted against his throne and 
even his life he saw his own creatures, 
his favorites and friends, join in the con 
spiracies against him, and the woman 
he loved, the young Demoiselle de la 
Fayette, frightened into a convent to 
become an agent of the Queen s party. 
He was a true Medici in caprice, indif 
ference, and lack of affection ; " Cinq- 
Mars is making an ugly face," he said, 
tranquilly, when his old favorite mounted 
the scaffold ; and his sole comment on 
the death of Richelieu, his only friend, 
was : " A great politician is dead." With 
the same quiet indifference he appointed 
regent for his son the woman who had 
always been his own and his country s 
enemy, and when, a few days before his 
death, he asked the dauphin, who had 
just been baptized, what his name was, 
and the child answered, "Louis XIV.," 
the father only replied, gently, "Not 
yet." It was but a poor phantom of 
royalty that the brave Musketeers loved 
and served. 

Bosse s Mazarin portly, handsome, 
sly-looking must have been a much 
better portrait of " L illustrissimo fac- 
chino" than the sentimental prelate 
of the Louvre ; his Louis XIV. is a 
Spanish Infante, with muttony cheeks 
and a round dot of a nose ; very Aus 
trian indeed he looks ; there is no re 
semblance to his thin, hypochondriacal 
father in the round, chubby face of 
Dieudonne, before Victory and a wig 
had crowned him. Philippe de Cham 
pagne painted Richelieu in his cardinal s 
robe ; the vivid scarlet makes the pale 
face ashy ; the sunken cheeks and hollow 
eyes show what a wreck, physically, was 



the man who carried out the policy of 
the great Henry, and saved France from 
the fate of Austria and Spain. History 
shows us that our brave Musketeers 
fought on the wrong side, but many 
a young noble erred with them, and 
regarding Anne as a wronged and 
neglected wife, acclaimed in her the 
Chimdne of Corneille s " Cid ; " Spanish 
romance, Spanish Jesuitry, Spanish 
bombast were the order of the day, and 
how could a Spanish queen, with such a 
fine complexion and such pretty parti 
sans as Mesdames Hauteville, Fargis, 
and Chevreuse fail to appeal to the 
chivalry of the youth of France ? Conde s 
fierce, foolish face ; Turenne s noble and 
beautiful head ; lazy, laughing Madame 
de Longueville, the sorry heroes of the 
Fronde, the wits, and the beauties, and 
the scholars are all familiar to us through 
the fine engravings of the National Li 
brary, the monuments, busts, and por 
traits of the Louvre and Versailles. 
The English characters Buckingham, 
Charles I., Henrietta Maria Van Dyck 
painted more than once, lending his 
noble sitters something of the graceful 
languor, the unthinking melancholy of 
the high-bred hounds he so often placed 
beside them, and Lely s portraits of the 
merry monarch, and the dishevelled 
nymphs, " his seven councillors," remain 
to show how the standard of beauty 
changes from age to age. 

For the backgrounds of his stories 
Dumas went naturally to the epoch of 
intrigue, his mots de la Jin would not easily 
have come from the bars of a helmet in 
the rougher older days ; it is the thrust of 
the rapier he loves rather than the down 
right blow of the heavy sword, the coup 
d estoc rather than the coup de faille. 
His is the true drama de cape et d epee, 
as the French have always called it, and 
his dialogue is its exponent the cloak 
to dissimulate, the sword to attack and 
defend. The whole epoch of Louis XHI. 
and of Mazarin was mask and dagger, 
conspiracy and duel. Dumas leads us 
among a gilded dramatis personoe ; he 
loves a noble, and though he distrusted 
princes the blood royal was never quite a 
common ichor to him. Friend and biog 
rapher of Garibaldi though he was, his 
artist side responded eagerly to the pict- 
uresqueness of the court. Chivalry and 





(Woman s costume of the time of the Fronde the frame from an engraving of the epoch.) 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



153 



generosity, the generosity which is akin 
to lavishness, the courage that borders on 
temerity, were his favorite virtues. He de 
fends Fouquet and detests Colbert ; likes 
the financier who spends, not the financier 
who saves ; and sympathizes thorough 
ly with that same ideal of the time, good 
swordsmanship. The intrigues of Riche 
lieu and the nobles, the English Revo 
lution, the Fronde, and the accession of 
the young Louis XIV. were all excellent 
material for the novelist, and if those 
who attribute impossible romancing to 
Dumas will follow French history, page 
for page, with the Musketeers, with the 
Dame de Monsoreau, and the Quarante- 
cinq, they will be equally surprised at 
the closeness with which he adheres to 
historical facts, the adroitness with which 
he uses real events, the cleverness with 
which he departs from them. His im 
agination has the better of it certainly 
in some cases, when he makes a wit of 
Louis XIV., and a sad and lofty hero of 
Charles II. ; but the events are generally 
furnished by history. There are a good 
many incidents to a chapter, it is true, 
and some may agree with the child 
who, speaking of that boy D Artagnan, 
the delightful Tom Sawyer, said : "I 
think those things might happen to a 
good many different boys, but I don t 
know if they d all happen to just o?ieboy." 
The justice of even this criticism, as ap 
plied to a book of Dumas, may be doubted 
on reading the memoirs of De Retz, or of 
Charles de Batz de Castelmore, Chevalier 
D Artagnan. Dumas was a Bonaparte 
in fiction ; his heroes were always busy, 
always there before the enemy, and he 
never objected to a multiplicity of events, 
like that old German officer who said 
of Napoleon : " We used to march and 
countermarch all summer long without 
gaining or losing a square mile ; and now 
comes an ignorant, hot-headed, young 
man, who flies about from Boulogne to 
Ulm, and from Ulm to the middle of 
Moravia, and fights battles in December ; 
the whole system of his tactics is mon 
strously incorrect." 

Our Musketeers, who are as reprehen- 
sibly active, are always fighting on the 
wrong side from the moment they are 
presented to us in the antechamber of 
Monsieur de Treville, until we reluctant 
ly part from them in the sixth volume 
VOL. VIII 16 



of Bragelonne. They despised, like no 
bles and like soldiers, the burgesses of 
heroic La Rochelle and the Parisians 
behind their barricades ; undoubtedly 
they shared Madame de Motteville s 
naive astonishment when she wrote of 
the popular manifestation that followed 
the release of Broussel : " Never was the 
triumph of king or Roman emperor 
greater than that of this poor little 
man, who had nothing to recommend 
him except his obstinacy in behalf of 
the public good." 

Our heroes are Royalists, everyone of 
them, aristocrats to the ends of their 
strong fingers ; believing implicitly in Di 
vine right and the prerogatives of noble 
birth, that the gentleman was privileged to 
hustle the burgher, beat his varlet, and 
terrorize the magistrate ; that " the peo 
ple is a mule to bear burdens ; " and 
in regard to their order prejudice4 as 
the marquise who said, referring to the 
death of a dissolute nobleman, " Gocl 
will think twice before damning a per 
son of his quality." 

And yet, in spite of it all, how we love 
them. Madame Roland wrote of her 
favorite authors : " Plutarch is my Bible, 
Rousseau my breviary, and Montaigne 
is my friend ; not that I do not take 
exception to much that he has writ 
ten, but when I say he is my friend that 
expresses it all." And what dear friends 
of ours these Musketeers are. How often 
in their beloved company have we gal 
loped away from care and illness and 
sorrow. No Atra Cum can follow when 
we ride with D Artagnan, a queen s honor 
hanging on our bridle-rein. How many 
Barmecide feasts we have enjoyed with 
them all in Paris taverns and wayside 
inns, and how often have they walked 
unseen by our side through the narrow 
streets and wide courts of their own old 
town. How we enjoy even the endless 
variety and boundless magnitude of their 
lies, and the dauntless way in which, true 
to their principles, if not to facts, they 
equivocate on occasions when truth-tell 
ing would have been so much easier and 
simpler ; believing with Voltaire that 
words were given us to conceal our 
thoughts. And how we rejoice in their 
virtues in Athos s open-handed gen 
erosity, in Portho s reverence for his 
comrades abilities, in D Artagnan s in- 



154 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



exhaustible invention, in Aramis s devo 
tion to the trio ; how, in our age of hy- 
percriticism, of impartial views, of ex 
haustive analysis of even our friends 
motives, their unswerving loyalty to each 
other appeals to us ; and how near to our 
hearts they are in spite of their deep 
drinking and constant fighting. In 
them the old French joyousness still 
survives, the intrepid mirth that the 
Gaulish legionaries showed in Crassus s 
terrible campaign, when they jested and 
sang under the burning sun and the 
Parthian arrows, and to the Roman sol 
diers who asked them if they were not 
afraid, replied, laughing : " Yes, that the 
sky may fall on our heads." This gay- 
ety. which is the most virile form of 
courage, this high-hearted contempt of 
danger, which is the dominant note of 
the novel, warms the blood like a gener 
ous wine. Indeed the whole cycle, with 
its old pagan ideal of friendship, its 
apotheosis of the manly virtues courage, 
fidelity, and perseverance is a moral 
tonic invaluable in an epoch of weak 
nerves and indecision, in it we breathe 
a wholesome atmosphere that stimulates 
like pure air and bright sunshine ; turn 
ing its pages we feel the strong sea-wind 
blowing in our faces, the cool breath of 
the forest is on our cheeks, sweet with 
the scent of sun-warmed pines and the 
odor of fresh earth tramplad by hurry 
ing hoofs. If the heavy perfumes of a 
royal alcove or a fine lady s toilet reach 
us, they are soon dispelled by a whiff 
of gunpowder or the rich bouquet of a 
flask of Burgundy ; it is only now and 
then that a waft of incense crosses our 
path, but always around us and about 
us, resounding with the thud of the iron 
hoofs and the brave music of steel on 
steel, is the fresh air, whether it blows 
from the chalk cliffs of England, over the 
tulip-beds of Fontainebleau, or through 
the narrow streets of old Paris. 

In Bragelonne the whole atmosphere 
changes ; the soldiers became courtiers, 
court intrigue and the life of the salon, 
the strife of wits and diplomats, replaced 
the shock of steel and the hand-to-hand, 
man-to-man struggle of more robust 
times ; while the swords that in the ear 
lier story were crossed in fight were thcTi 
raised in the minuet. Our heroes were 
of another age and they fared ill at 



court. Athos s heart was broken by the 
shattering of his idol, Royalty, and the 
despair of Raoul ; loyal, steadfast Porthos 
was duped and became the tool of the 
Jesuits ; D Artagnan s pride was tamed 
by an unscrupulous master ; the least 
worthy of our heroes only flourished 
under these changed conditions, the 
crafty Aramis, and even he ceased to be 
a personality, and as General of his or 
der was only a wheel in a vast ma 
chine. 

But in spite of this what a sunny pict 
ure of court life it is ! A young king 
eager to enjoy; Colbert, the genius of 
finance, to coin gold for fetes and armies ; 
a host of men of letters to immortalize 
it all. Le cardinal est mort. Vive le 
roi ! So the ballets are danced, the jew 
ellers and embroiderers are busy, light 
laughter floats under the old trees of 
Fontainebleau, the walls of the Louvre 
echo the violins, comedies are played at 
Vaux, rockets rise from the gardens, 
even the gray castle of Blois, with its 
gloomy memories and blood-stained 
floor, becomes only a background for 
young and charming figures ; and how 
the great author revels in this spring 
time gayety. He loves physical beauty 
like a Greek, he delights in jewels and 
rich dresses like a woman, and he 
enjoys a feast like a true disciple of 
Vatel and Brillat-Savarin. As we read 
these dialogues inspired by Moliere, 
these mots worthy of Bassompierre, 
these portraits that La Bruyere might 
have signed, how complete the illusion 
is. We feel that we have coquetted with 
Madame, sighed with De Guiche, and 
are quite sure that we have seen Moliere 
make his preliminary studies for the 
"Bourgeois Gentilhomme : " we know in 
timately Fouquet s court of poets, dis 
like while we admire Colbert, and are 
firmly persuaded that Philippe would 
have made a better king than his broth 
er ; of course we are convinced that the 
Chevalier de Lorraine poisoned Madame; 
while for us the mystery of the iron 
mask is solved beyond a doubt. With 
what ease and grace it is done by this 
" Porthos of fiction : " just as the perfect 
gymnast performs his feats with an ap 
parent carelessness, so Dumas s mastery 
of his technique renders that technique 
almost invisible ; in it there is no sign of 



A DIALOGUE. 



155 



effort, no trace of the file ; the story is 
told so perfectly that the manner of its 
telling is unperceived. 

No one who has galloped and fought 
and laughed with the Musketeers can 
leave them without regret, and when we 
finally part from them we feel a certain 
sense of loss that our pleasant comrade 
ship is ended ; but we have only to re 



turn to the book-shelf, where a foot s 
space holds all this world of pleasure, like 
the tiny vase in the " Arabian Nights " 
that inclosed a genie who could fill all 
earth and sky with his gifts ; we need 
but reopen the first volume our heroes 
are alive and young again, and we can 
always repeat with D Artagnan s last 
words, " Athos, Porthos, au revoir." 



A DIALOGUE. 

By Andrew Lang. 



LUL 

OH, have you found the Fount of Youth, 

Or have you faced the Fire of K6r? 
Or whence the form, the eyes, the mouth, 

The voice, the grace we praised of yore ? 
Ah, lightly must the years have sped, 

The long, the labor-laden years, 
That cast no snows upon your head, 

Nor dim your eyes with any tears ! 
And gently must the heart have beat, 

That, after many days, can send 
So soft, so kind a blush to greet 

The advent of so old a friend. 



ELLE. 

Another tale doth it repeat, 

My mirror ; and it tells me tine ! 
But Time, the thief of all things sweet, 

Has failed to steal one grace from you 
One touch of youth he cannot steal, 

One trait there is he leaves you yet ; 
The boyish loyalty, the leal 

Absurd, impossible regret ! 
Tiiese are the magic : these restore 

A phantom of the April prime, 
Show you the face you liked of yore, 

And give me back the thefts of Time ! 




>V\jtH< 



GALLEGHER. 

A NEWSPAPER STORY. 
By Richard Harding Davis. 




E had had so many of 
fice-boys before Galle- 
gher came among us 
that they had begun to 
lose the characteristics 
of individuals, and be 
came merged in a com 
posite photograph of small boys, to 
whom we applied the generic title of 
" Here, you ; " or, " You, boy." 

We had had sleepy boys, and lazy 
boys, and bright, " smart" boys, who be 
came so familiar on so short an acquaint 
ance that we were forced to part with 
them to save our own self-respect. 

They generally graduated into dis 
trict-messenger boys, and occasionally 
returned to us in blue coats with nickel- 
plated buttons, and patronized us. 

But Gallegher was something different 
from anything we had experienced be 
fore. Gallegher was short and broad in 
build, with a solid, muscular broadness, 
and not a fat and dumpy shortness. 
He wore perpetually on his face a happy 
and knowing smile, as if you and the 
world in general were not impressing 
him as seriously as you thought you 
were, and his eyes, which were very 
black and very bright, snapped intel 
ligently at you like those of a little 
black-and-tan terrier. V~~ 
/All Gallegher knew had been learnt 
On the streets ; not a very good school 
in itself, but one that turns out very 
knowing scholars. And Gallegher had 
attended both morning and evening ses 
sions. He could not tell you who the 
Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name 
the thirteen original States, but he knew 
all the officers of the twenty -second po 
lice district by name, and he could dis 
tinguish the clang of a fire-engine s 
gong from that of a patrol-wagon or an 
ambulance fully two blocks distant. It 
was Gallegher who rang the alarm when 
the Woolwich Mills caught fire while 
the officer on the beat was asleep, and it 
was Gallegher who led the " Black Dia 



monds " against the " Wharf Rats," when 
they used to stone each other to their 
hearts content on the coal-wharves of 
Richmond. 

I am afraid, now that I see these facts 
written down, that Gallegher was not a 
reputable character ; but he was so very 
young and so very old for his years that 
we all liked him very much nevertheless. 
He lived in the extreme northern part 
of Philadelphia, where the cotton- and 
woollen-mills run down to the river, and 
how he ever got home after leaving the 
Press building at two in the morning 
was one of the mysteries of the office. 
Sometimes he caught a night car, and 
sometimes he walked all the way, arriv 
ing at the little house, where his mother 
and himself lived alone, at four in the 
morning. Occasionally he was given a 
ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of 
the newspaper delivery wagons, with its 
high piles of papers still damp and stick} 
from the press. He knew several drivers 
of "night hawks " those cabs that prowl 
the streets at night looking for belated 
passengers and when it was a very cold 
morning he would not go home at all, 
but would crawl into one of these cabs 
and sleep, curled up on the cushions, 
until daylight. 

Besides being quick and cheerful, 
Gallegher possessed a power of amusing 
the Press s young men to a degree seldom 
attained by the ordinary mortal. His 
clog-dancing on the city editor s desk, 
when that gentleman was up-stairs fight 
ing for two more columns of space, was 
always a source of innocent joy to us, 
and his imitations of the comedians of 
the variety halls delighted even the dra 
matic critic, from whom the comedians 
themselves failed to force a smile. 

But Gallegher s chief characteristic 
was his love for that element of news 
generically classed as " crime." 

Not that he ever did anything crimi 
nal himself. On the contrary, his was 
rather the work of the criminal specialist. 



GALLEGHER. 



157 



and his morbid interest in the doings of 
all queer characters, his knowledge of 
their methods, their present wherea 
bouts, and their past deeds of transgres 
sion often rendered him a valuable ally to 
our police reporter, whose daily feuille- 
tons were the only portion of the paper 
Gallegher deigned to read, y 

In Gallegher the detectivfe element was 
abnormally developed. He had shown 
this on several occasions, and to excel 
lent purpose. 

Once the paper had sent him into a 
Home for Destitute Orphans which was 
believed to be grievously mismanaged, 
and Gallegher, while playing the part of 
a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to 
what was going on around him so faith 
fully that the story he told of the treat 
ment meted out to the real orphans was 
sufficient to rescue the unhappy little 
wretches from the individual who had 
them in charge, and to have the indi 
vidual himself sent to jail. 

Gallegher s knowledge of the aliases, 
terms of imprisonment, and various 
misdoings of the leading criminals in 
Philadelphia was almost as thorough as 
that of the chief of police himself, and 
he could tell to an hour when " Dutchy 
Mack " was to be let out of prison, and 
could identify at a glance "Dick Ox 
ford, confidence man," as " Gentleman 
Dan, petty thief."/ 

e were, ^&t this time, only two 
pieces of news in any of the papers. The 
least important of the two was the big 
fight between the Champion of the 
United States and the Would-be Cham 
pion, arranged to take place near Phila 
delphia ; the second was the Burrbank 
murder, which was filling space in news 
papers all over the world, from New 
York to Bombay. 

Kichard F. Burrbank was one of the 
most prominent of New York s railroad 
lawyers, he was also, as a matter of 
course, an owner of much railroad stock, 
and a very wealthy man. He had been 
spoken of as a political possibility for 
many high offices, and, as the counsel for 
a great railroad, was known even fur 
ther than the great railroad itself had 
stretched its system. 

At six o clock one morning he was 
found by his butler lying at the foot of 
the hall stairs with two pistol wounds 



above his heart. He was quite dead. 
His safe, to which only he and his secre 
tary had the keys, was found open, and 
$200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, 
which had been placed there only the 
night before, was found missing. The 
secretary was missing also. His name 
was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and 
his description had been telegraphed 
and cabled to all parts of the world. 
There was enough circumstantial evi 
dence to show, beyond any question or 
possibility of mistake, that he was the 
murderer. 

It made an enormous amount of talk, 
and unhappy individuals were being ar 
rested all over the country, and sent on 
to New York for identification. Three 
had been arrested at Liverpool, and one 
man just as he landed at Sidney, Aus 
tralia. But so far the murderer had es 
caped. 

We were all talking about it one 
night, as everybody else was all over the 
country, in the local room, and the city 
editor said it was worth a fortune to any 
one who chanced to run against Hade 
and succeeded in handing him over to 
the police. Some of us thought Hade 
had taken passage from some one of the 
smaller seaports, and others were of the 
opinion that he had buried himself in 
some cheap lodging-house in New York, 
or in one of the smaller towns in New 
Jersey. 

"I shouldn t be surprised to meet 
him out walking, right here in Philadel 
phia," said one of the staff. " He ll be 
disguised, of course, but you could al 
ways tell him by the absence of the trig 
ger finger on his right hand. It s miss 
ing, you know ; shot off when he was a 
boy." 

"You want to look for a man dressed 
like a tough," said the city editor ; " for 
as this fellow is to all appearances a 
gentleman, he will try to look as little 
like a gentleman as possible." 

" No, he won t," said Gallegher, with 
that calm impertinence that made him 
dear to us. "He ll dress just like a 
gentleman. Toughs don t wear gloves, 
and you see he s got to wear em. The 
first thing he thought of after doing for 
Burrbank was of that gone finger, and 
how he was to hide it. He stuffed the 
finger of that glove with cotton so s to 



158 



GALLEGHER. 



make it look like a whole finger, and the 
first time he takes off that glove they ve 
got him see, and he knows it. So 
what yous want to do is to look for a 
man with gloves on. I ve been a doing 
it for two weeks now, and I can tell you 
it s hard work, for everybody wears 
gloves this kind of weather. But if you 
look long enough you ll find him. And 
when you think it s him, go up to him 
and hold out your hand in a friendly 
way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his 
hand ; and if you feel that his forefin 
ger ain t real flesh, but just wadded cot 
ton, then grip to it with your right and 
grab his throat with your left, and holler 
for help." 

There was an appreciative pause. 

" I see, gentlemen," said the city edi 
tor, dryly, " that Gallegher s reasoning 
has impressed you ; and I also see that 
before the week is out all of my young 
men will be under bonds for assaulting 
innocent pedestrians whose only of 
fence is that they wear gloves in mid 
winter." 

It was about a week after this that De 
tective Hefiiefinger, of Inspector Byrnes s 
staff, came over to Philadelphia after a 
burglar, of whose whereabouts he had 
been misinformed by telegraph. He 
brought the warrant, requisition, and 
other necessary papers with him, but 
the burglar had flown. One of our re 
porters had worked on a New York pa 
per, and knew Hefnefinger, and the de 
tective came to the office to see if he 
could help him in his so far unsuccess 
ful search. 

He gave Gallegher his card, and after 
Gallegher had read it, and had discov 
ered who the visitor was, he became so 
demoralized that he was absolutely use 
less. 

"One of Byrnes s men," was a much 
more awe-inspiring individual to Galle 
gher than a member of the Cabinet. He 
accordingly seized his hat and overcoat, 
and leaving his duties to be looked after 
by others, hastened out after the object 
of his admiration, who found his sugges 
tions and knowledge of the city so valu 
able, and his company so entertaining, 
that they became very intimate, and 
spent the rest of the day together. 

In the meanwhile the managing editor 



had instructed his subordinates to in 
form Gallegher, when he condescended 
to return, that his services were no longer 
needed. Gallegher had played truant 
once too often. Unconscious of this, he 
remained with his new friend until late 
the same evening, and started the next 
afternoon toward the Press office. 

As I have said, Gallegher lived in the 
most distant part of the city, not many 
minutes walk from the Kensington rail 
road station, where trains ran into the 
suburbs and on to New York. 

It was in front of this station that 
a smoothly shaven, well-dressed man 
brushed past Gallegher and hurried up 
the steps to the ticket office. 

He held a walking-stick in his right 
hand, and Gallegher, who now patiently 
scrutinized the hands of every one who 
wore gloves, saw that while three fingers 
of the man s hand w r ere closed around 
the cane the fourth stood out in almost 
a straight line with his palm. 

Gallegher stopped with a gasp and 
with a trembling all over his little body, 
and his brain asked with a throb if it 
could be possible. But possibilities and 
probabilities were to be discovered later. 
Now was the time for action. 

He was after the man in a moment, 
hanging at his heels and his eyes moist 
with excitement. 

He heard the man ask for a ticket to 
Torresdale, a little station just outside 
of Philadelphia, and when he was out of 
hearing, but not out of sight, purchased 
one for the same place. 

The stranger went into the smoking- 
car and seated himself at one end tow 
ard the door. Gallegher took his place 
at the opposite end. 

He was trembling all over and suf 
fered from a slight feeling of nausea. 
He guessed it came from fright, not of 
any bodily harm that might come to him, 
but at the probability of failure in his 
adventure and of its most momentous 
possibilities. 

The stranger pulled his coat collar up 
around his ears, hiding the lower por 
tion of his face but not concealing the 
resemblance in his troubled eyes and 
close-shut lips to the likenesses of the 
murderer Hade. 

They reached Torresdale in half an 



GALLEGHER. 



159 



hour, and the stranger, alighting quick 
ly, struck off at a rapid pace down the 
country road leading to the station. 

Gallegher gave him a hundred yards 
start and then followed slowly after. 
The road ran between fields and past a 
few frame-houses set far from the road 
in kitchen gardens. 

Once or twice the man looked back 
over his shoulder, but he saw only a 
dreary length of road with a small boy 
splashing through the slush in the midst 
of it and stopping every now and again 
to throw snowballs at belated spar 
rows. 

After a ten minutes walk the stranger 
turned into a side road which led to 
only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old 
roadside hostelry known now as the 
headquarters for pot-hunters from the 
Philadelphia game market and the bat 
tle-ground of many a cock-fight. 

Gallegher knew the place well. He 
and his young companions had often 
stopped there when out chestnuting on 
holidays in the autumn. 

The son of the man who kept it had 
often accompanied them on their excur 
sions, b,nd though the boys of the city 
streete considered him a dumb lout they 
respected him somewhat owing to his 
inside knowledge of dog- and cock-fights. 

The stranger entered the inn at a side 
door, and Gallegher, reaching it a few 
minutes later, let him go for the time be 
ing and set about finding his occasional 
playmate young Keppler. 

Keppler s offspring was found in the 
woodshed. 

" Tain t hard to guess what brings 
you out here," said the tavern-keeper s 
son, with a grin ; " it s the fight." 

"What fight? "asked Gallegher, un 
guardedly. 

" What fight ? Why, the fight," re 
turned his companion, with the slow 
contempt of superior knowledge. " It s 
to come off here to-night. You knew 
that as well as me ; anyway your sport- 
in editor knows it. He got the tip 
last night, but that won t help you any. 
You needn t think there s any chance of 
your getting a peep at it. Why, tickets 
is two hunderd and fifty a piece ! " 

" Whew ! " whistled Gallegher, " where s 
it to be ? " 

"In the barn," whispered Keppler. 



" I helped em fix the ropes this morn 
ing, I did." 

" Gosh, but you re in luck," exclaimed 
Gallegher, with flattering envy. " Could 
n t I jest get a peep at it ? " 

" Maybe," said the gratified Keppler. 
"There s a winder with a wooden shut 
ter at the back of the barn. You can 
get in by it, if you have someone to 
boost you up to the sill." 

"Sa-a-y," drawled Gallegher, as if 
something had but just that moment 
reminded him. " Who s that gent who 
come down the road just a bit ahead of 
me him with the cape-coat ! Has he 
got anything to do with the fight ? " 

"Him?" repeated Keppler in tones 
of sincere disgust. "No-oh, he ain t 
no sport. He s queer, Dad thinks. He 
come here one day last week about ten 
in the morning, said his doctor told him 
to go out en the country for his health. 
He s stuck up and citified, and wears 
gloves, and takes his meals private in his 
room, and all that sort of ruck. They 
was saying in the saloon last night that 
they thought he was hiding from some 
thing, and Dad, just to try him, asks him 
last night if he was coming to see the 
fight. He looked sort of scared and 
said he didn t want to see no fight. 
And then Dad says, I guess you mean 
you don t want no fighters to see you. 
Dad didn t mean no harm by it, just 
passed it as a joke, but Mr. Carle ton, as 
he calls himself, got white as a ghost an 
says I ll go to the fight willing enough, 
and begins to laugh and joke. And 
this morning he went right into the bar 
room, where all the sports were setting, 
and said he was going into town to see 
some friends, and as he starts off he 
laughs an says, This don t look as if I 
was afraid of seeing people, does it ? but 
Dad says it was just bluff that made 
him do it, and Dad thinks that if he 
hadn t said what he did this Mr. Carle- 
ton wouldn t have left his room at alL" 

Gallegher had got all he wanted, and 
much more than he had hoped for so 
much more that his walk back to the 
station was in the nature of a triumphal 
march. 

He had twenty minutes to wait for 
the next train, and it seemed an hour. 
While waiting he sent a telegram to 
Hefflefinger at his hotel. It read : 



160 



GALLEGHER. 



" Your man is near the Torresdale sta 
tion, on Pennsylvania Railroad ; take cab 
and meet me at station. Wait until I 
come. GALLEGHER." 

With the exception of one at mid 
night, no other train stopped at Torres- 
dale that evening, hence the direction to 
take a cab. 

The train to the city seemed to Gal- 
legher to drag itself by inches. It stop 
ped and backed at purposeless intervals, 
waited for an express to precede it, and 
dallied at stations, and when, at last, it 
reached the terminus, Gallegher was out 
before it had stopped and was in a cab 
and off on his way to the home of the 
sporting editor. 

The sporting editor was at dinner 
and came out in the hall to see him, 
with his napkin in his hand. Galle 
gher explained breathlessly that he had 
located the murderer for whom the 
police of two continents were looking, 
and that he believed, in order to quiet 
the suspicions of the people with whom 
he was hiding, that he would be present 
at the fight that night. 

The sporting editor led Gallegher into 
his library and shut the door. " Now," 
he said, " go over all that again." 

Gallegher went over it again in detail, 
and added how he had sent for Heffle- 
finger to make the arrest in order that 
it might be kept from the knowledge of 
the local police and from the Philadel 
phia reporters. 

" What I want Hefnefinger to do is to 
arrest Hade with the warrant he has for 
the burglar," explained Gallegher ; " and 
to take him on to New York on the owl 
train that passes Torresdale at one. It 
don t get to Jersey City until four 
o clock, one hour after the morning pa 
pers go to press. Of course, we must 
fix Heinefinger so s he ll keep quiet and 
not tell who his prisoner really is." 

The sporting editor reached his hand 
out to pat Gallegher on the head, but 
changed his mind and shook hands with 
him instead. 

"My boy," he said, "you are an infant 
phenomenon. If I can pull the rest of 
this thing off to-night it will mean the 
$5,000 reward and fame galore for you 
and the paper. Now, I m going to write 
a note to the managing editor, and you 
can take it around to him and tell him 



what you ve done and what I am go 
ing to do, and he ll take you back on 
the paper and raise your salary. Per 
haps you didn t know you ve been dis 
charged ? " 

"Do you think you ain t a-going to 
take me with you?" demanded Galle 
gher. 

" Why, certainly not. Why should I ? 
It all lies with the detective and myself 
now. You ve done your share, and done 
it well. If the man s caught the re 
ward s yours. But you d only be in the 
way now. You d better go to the office 
and make your peace with the chief." 

" If the paper can get along without 
me, I can get along without the old 
paper," said Gallegher, hotly. " And if I 
ain t a-going with you, you ain t neither, 
for I know where Hefnefinger is to be 
and you don t, and I won t tell you." 

"Oh, very well, very well," replied 
the sporting editor, weakly capitulating. 
" I ll send the note by a messenger ; only 
mind, if you lose your place, don t blame 
me." 

c Gallegher wondered how this man 
could value a week s salary against the 
excitement of seeing a noted criminal 
run down, and of getting the news to the 
paper, and to that one paper alone. 

From that moment the sporting>edi- 
tor sank in Gallegher s estimation.! 

Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and 
scribbled off the following note : 

" I have received reliable information 
that Hade, the Burrbank murderer, will 
be present at the fight to-night. We 
have arranged it so that he will be ar 
rested quietly and in such a manner that 
the fact may be kept from all other pa 
pers. I need not point out to you that 
this will be the most important piece of 
news in the country to-morrow. 

" Yours, etc., MICHAEL E. DWYER." 

The sporting editor stepped into the 
waiting cab, while Gallegher whispered 
the directions to the driver. He was 
told to go first to a district-messenger 
office, and from there up to the Ridge 
Avenue Road, out Broad Street, and on 
to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. 

It was a miserable night. The rain 
and snow were falling together, and 



GALLEGHER. 



161 



freezing as they fell. The sporting ed 
itor got out to send his message to the 
Press office, and then lighting a cigar, 
and turning up the collar of his great 
coat, curled up in the corner of the cab. 

" Wake me when we get there, Galle- 
gher," he said. He knew he had a long 
ride, and much rapid work before him, 
and he was preparing for the strain. 

To Gallegher the idea of going^ to 
sleep seemed almost criminal From 
the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone 
with excitement, and with the awful joy 
of anticipation. He glanced every now 
and then to where the sporting editor s 
cigar shone in the darkness, and watched 
it as it gradually burnt more dimly and 
went out. The lights in the shop win 
dows threw a broad glare across the ice 
on the pavements, and the lights from 
the lamp-posts tossed the distorted 
shadow of the cab, and the horse, and 
the motionless driver, sometimes before 
and sometimes behind them. 

After half an hour Gallegher slipped 
down to the bottom of the cab and 
dragged out a lap-robe, in which he 
wrapped himself. It was growing cold 
er, and the damp, keen wind swept in 
through the cracks until the window- 
frames and woodwork were cold to the 
touch. 

An hour passed and the cab was still 
moving more slowly over the rough sur 
face of partly paved streets, and by sin 
gle rows of new houses standing at dif 
ferent angles to each other in fields 
covered with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. 
Here and there the gaudy lights of a 
drug-store, the forerunner of suburban 
civilization, shone from the end of a new 
block of houses, and the rubber cape of 
an occasional policeman showed in the 
light of the lamp-post that he hugged 
for comfort. 

Then even the houses disappeared 
and the cab dragged its way between 
truck farms, with desolate-looking glass- 
covered beds, and pools of water, half- 
caked with ice, and bare trees, and in- 
(terminable fences. 

/ {/i/Qnce or twice the cab stopped alto 
gether, and Gallegher could hear the 
driver swearing to himself, or at the 
horse, or the roads. At last they drew 
up before the station at Torresdale. It 
was quite deserted, and only a single 



light cut a swath in the darkness and 
showed a portion of the platform, the 
ties, and the rails glistening in the rain. 
They walked twice past the light before 
a figure stepped out of the shadow and 
greeted them cautiously. 

"I am Mr. Dwyer, of the Press," said 
the sporting editor, briskly. "You ve 
heard of me, perhaps. Well, there 
shouldn t be any difficulty in our mak 
ing a deal, should there ? * This boy here 
has found Hade, and we have reason 
to believe he will be among the specta 
tors at the fight to-night. We want you 
to arrest him quietly, and as secretly as 
possible. You can do it with your pa 
pers and your badge easily enough. 
We want you to pretend that you believe 
he is this burglar you came over after. 
If you will do this, and take him away 
without any one so much as suspect 
ing who he really is, and on the train 
that passes here at 1.20 for New York, 
we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 
reward. If, however, one other paper, 
either in New York or Philadelphia, or 
anywhere else, knows of the arrest you 
won t get a cent. Now, what do you 
say?" 

The detective had a great deal to say. 
He wasn t at all sure the man Gallegher 
suspected was Hade, he feared he might 
get himself into trouble by making a 
false arrest, and if it should be the man 
he was afraid the local police would in 
terfere. 

" We ve no time to argue or debate 
this matter," said Dwyer, warmly. " We 
agree to point Hade out to you in the 
crowd. After the fight is over you ar 
rest him as we have directed and you 
get the money and the credit of the ar 
rest. It you don t like this I will arrest 
the man myself, and have him driven to 
town, with a pistol for a warrant." 

Heiflefinger considered in silence and 
then agreed unconditionally. " As you 
say, Mr. Dwyer," he returned. " I ve 
heard of you for a thoroughbred sport. 
I know you ll do what you say you ll do ; 
and as for me I ll do what you say and 
just as you say, and it s a very pretty 
piece of work as it stands." 

They all stepped back into the cab, 
and then it was that they were met by 
a fresh difficulty, how to get the detec 
tive into the barn where the fight was to 



162 



GALLEGHER. 



take place, for neither of the two men 
had $250 to pay for his admittance. 

But this was overcome when Galle- 
gher remembered the window of which 
young Keppler had told him. 

In the event of Hade s losing courage 
and not daring to show himself in the 
crowd around the ring it was agreed 
that Dwyer should come to the barn and 
warn Hefflennger, but if he should come, 
Dwyer was merely to keep near him and 
to signify by a prearranged gesture 
which one of the crowd he was. 

They drew up before a great black 
shadow of a house, dark, forbidding, and 
apparently deserted. But at the sound of 
the wheels on the gravel the door opened, 
letting out a stream of warm, cheerful 
light, and a man s voice said, " Put out 
those lights. Don t you se know no bet 
ter than that." This was Keppler, and 
he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with effusive 
courtesy. 

The two men showed in the stream of 
light and the door closed on them, leav 
ing the house as it was at first, black and 
silent save for the dripping of the rain 
and snow from the eaves. 

The detective and Gallegher put out 
the cab s lamps and led the horse toward 
a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, 
which they now noticed was almost 
filled with teams of many different makes, 
from the Hobson s choice of a livery sta 
ble to the brougham of the man about 
town. 

"No," said Gallegher, as the cabman 
stopped to hitch the horse beside the 
others, " we want it nearest that lower 
gate. When we newspaper men leave 
this place we ll leave it in a hurry, and 
the man who is nearest town is likely to 
get there first. You won t be a follow 
ing of no hearse when you make your 
return trip." 

Gallegher tied the horse to the very 
gate-post itself, leaving the gate open 
and allowing a clear road and a flying 
start for the prospective race to News 
paper Bow. 

The driver disappeared under the 
shelter of the porch, and Gallegher and 
the detective moved off cautiously to the 
rear of the barn. " This must be the 
window," said Hefflefinger, pointing to a 
broad wooden shutter some feet from 
the ground. 



"Just you give me a boost once, and 
I ll get that open in a jiffy," said Galle 
gher. 

The detective placed his hands on his 
knees and Gallegher stood upon his 
shoulders, and with the blade of his 
knife lifted the wooden button that 
fastened the window on the inside and 
pulled the shutter open. 

Then he put one leg inside over the 
sill, and leaning down helped to draw 
his fellow-conspirator up to a level with 
the window. "I feel just like I was 
burglarizing a house," chuckled Galle 
gher as he dropped noiselessly to the 
floor below and refastened the shutter. 
The barn was a large one, with a row of 
stalls on either side in which horses and 
cows were dozing. There was a hay 
mow over each row of stalls, and at one 
end of the barn a number of fence-rails 
had been thrown across from one mow 
to the other. These rails were covered 
with hay. 

In the middle of the floor was the 
ring. It was not really a ring, but a 
square, with wooden posts at its four 
corners through which ran a heavy rope. 
The space inclosed by the rope was cov 
ered with sawdust. 

/ TGallegher could not resist stepping 
into the ring, and after stamping the 
sawdust once or twice, as if to assure 
himself that he was really there, began 
dancing around it, and indulging in 
such a remarkable series of fistic ma 
noeuvres with an imaginary adversary 
that the unimaginative detective precipi 
tately backed into-a corner of the barn. 

"Now, then,"teaid Gallegher, having 
apparently vanquished his foe, ryou 
come with me." iHis companion fol 
lowed quickly as Gallegher climbed to 
one of the hay-mows, and crawling care 
fully out on the fence rails stretched 
himself at full length, face downward. 
In this position, by moving the straw a 
little, he could look down, without being 
himself seen, upon the heads of whomso 
ever stood below. " This is better n a- 
private box, ain t it? " said Gallegher. 

The boy from the newspaper office 
and the detective lay there in silence, 
biting at straws and tossing anxiously 
on their comfortable bed. 

It seemed fully two hours before they 
came. Gallegher had listened without 



GALLEGHER. 



163 



v- 



breathing, and with every muscle on a 
strain, at least a dozen times, when some 
movement in the yard had led him to 
believe that they were at the door. 
( And he had numerous doubts and 
fears. Sometimes it was that the police 
had learnt of the fight and had raided 
Keppler s in his absence, and again it 
was that the fight had been postponed, 
or, worst of all, that it would be put off 
until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not 
get back in .time for the last edition of 

e paper. \^Fheir coming, when at last 
they came/was heralded by an advance- 
guard of two sporting men, who sta 
tioned themselves at either side of the 
big door. 

" Hurry up, now, gents," one of the 
men said with a shiver, " don t keep this 
door open no longer n is needful." 

It was not a very large crowd, but it 
was wonderfully well selected. It ran, 
in the majority of its component parts, 
to heavy white coats with pearl buttons. 
The white coats were shouldered by long 
blue coats with astrakhan fur trimmings, 
the wearers of which preserved a clique- 
ness not remarkable when one con 
siders that they believed every one else , 
present to be either a crook or a prize 
fighter. 

There were well-fed, well-groomed 
clubmen and brokers in the crowd, a 
politician or two, a popular comedian 
with his manager, amateur boxers from 
the athletic clubs, and quiet, close- 
mouthed sporting men from every city 
in the country. Their names if printed 
in the papers would have been as fam 
iliar as the types of the papers them 
selves. 

And among these men, whose only 
thought was of the brutal sport to come, 
was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease 
at his shoulder Hade, white and visibly 
in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face be 
neath a cloth travelling-cap, and with 
his chin muffted in a woollen scarf. He 
had dared to come because he feared 
his danger from the already suspicious 
Keppler was less than if he stayed away. 
And so he was there, hovering restlessly 
on the border of the crowd, feeling his 
danger and sick with fear. 

When Hefflefinger first saw him he 
started up on his hands and elbows and 
made a movement forward as if he would 



leap down then and there and carry off 
his prisoner single-handed. 

" Lie down," growled Gallegher ; " an 
officer of any sort wouldn t live three 
minutes in that crowd." 

The detective drew back slowly and 
buried himself again in the straw, but 
never once through the long fight which 
followed did his eyes leave the person 
of the murderer. The newspaper men 
took their places in the foremost row 
close around the ring, and kept looking 
at their watches and begging the master 
of ceremonies to "shake it up, do." 

V^There was a great deal of betting, and 
all of the men handled the great roll of 
bills they wagered with a flippant reck 
lessness which could only be accounted 
for in Gallegher s mind by temporary 
mental derangement. Some one pulled 
a box out into the ring and the master of 
ceremonies mounted, it and pointed out 
in forcible language that as they were 
almost all already under bonds to keep 
the peace, it behooved all to curb their 
excitement and to maintain a severe si 
lence, unless they wanted to bring the 
police upon them and have themselves 
"sent down " for a year or two. 

Then two very disreputable-looking 
persons tossed their respective princi 
pals high hats into the ring, and the 
crowd, recognizing in this relic of the 
days when brave knights threw down 
their gauntlets in the lists as only a sign 
that the fight was about to begin, cheered 
tumultuously. 

This was followed by a sudden surg 
ing forward, and a mutter of admiration 
much more flattering than the cheers 
had been, when the principals followed 
their hats, and slipping out of their great 
coats stood forth in all the physical 
beauty of the perfect brute. 

Their pink skin was as soft and 
healthy looking as a baby s, and glowed 
in the lights of the lanterns like tinted 
ivory, and underneath this silken cover 
ing the great biceps and muscles moved 
in and out and looked like the coils of 
a snake around the branch of a tree. 

Gentleman and blackguard shoul 
dered each other for a nearer view ; the 
coachmen, whose metal buttons were 
unpleasantly suggestive of police, put 
their hands, in the excitement of the mo 
ment, on the shoulders of their masters ; 



164 



GALLEGHER. 



the perspiration stood out in great drops 
on the foreheads of the backers and 
the newspaper men bit somewhat ner 
vously at the ends of their pencils. 

And in the stalls the cows munched 
contentedly at their cuds and gazed with 
gentle curiosity at their two fellow- 
brutes, who stood waiting the signal to 
fall upon, and kill each other if need be, 
for the delectation of their brothers. 

" Take your places," commanded the 
master of ceremonies. 

In the moment in which the two men 
faced each other the crowd became so 
still that, save for the beating of the rain 
upon the shingled roof and the stamp 
ing of a horse in one of the stalls, the 
place was as silent as a church. 

" Shake hands," commanded the mas 
ter of ceremonies. 

Two great, bruised, misshapen fists 
touched each other for an instant, the 
two men sprang back into a posture of 
defence, which was lost as quickly as it 
was taken. One great arm shot out like 
a piston-rod, there was the sound of 
bare fists beating on naked flesh, there 
was an exultant indrawn gasp of savage 
pleasure and relief from the crowd, and 
the great fight had begun. 

How the fortunes of war rose and fell, 
and changed and rechanged that night, 
is an old story to those who listen to 
such stories ; and those who do not 
will be glad to be spared the telling of 
it. It was, they say, one of the bitterest 
fights between two men that this coun 
try has ever known. 

Y~But all that is of interest here is that 
after an hour of this desperate brutal 
business the champion ceased to be the 
favorite ; the man whom he had taunted 
and bullied, and for whom the public had 
but little sympathy, was proving himself 
a likely winner, and under his cruel 
blows, as sharp and clean as those from 
a cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giv 
ing way. 

The men about the ropes were past 
all control now ; they drowned Keppler s 
petitions for silence with oaths and on, 
inarticulate shouts of anger, as if the 
blows had fallen upon them, and in mad 
rejoicings. They swept from one end 
of the ring to the other, with every mus 
cle leaping in unison with those of the 
man they favored, and when a New York 



correspondent muttered over his shoul 
der that this would be the biggest sport 
ing surprise since the Heenan-Sayers 
fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his head sym 
pathetically in assent. 
In the excitement and tumult it is 
doubtful if any heard the three quickly 
repeated blows that fell heavily from the 
outside upon the big doors of the barn. 
If they did, it was already too late to 
mend matters, for the door fell, torn from 
its hinges, and as it fell a captain of po 
lice sprang into the light from out of 
the storm, with his lieutenants and their 
men crowding close at his shoulder. 

In the panic and stampede that fol 
lowed, several of the men stood as help 
lessly immovable as though they had 
seen a ghost ; others made a mad rush 
into the arms of the officers and were 
beaten back against the ropes of the ring ; 
others dived headlong into the stalls, 
among the horses and cattle, and still 
others shoved the rolls of money they 
held into the hands of the police and 
begged like children to be allowed to 
escape. 

The instant the door fell and the raid 
was declared Hefiiefinger slipped over 
the cross rails on which he had been 
lying, hung for an instant by his hands, 
and then dropped into the centre of the 
fighting mob on the floor. He was out 
of it in an instant with the agility of a 
pickpocket, was across the room and at 
Hade s throat like a dog. The mur 
derer, for the moment, was the calmer 
man of the two. 

"Here," he panted, "hands off, now. 
There s no need for all this violence. 
There s no great harm in looking at a 
fight, is there ? There s a hundred-dol 
lar bill in my right hand ; take it and 
let me slip out of this. No one is look 
ing. Here." 

But the detective only held him the 
closer. 

"I want you for burglary," he whis 
pered under his breath. "You ve got 
to come with me now, and quickly. The 
less fuss you make the better for us 
both. If you don t know who I am you 
can feel my badge under my coat there. 
I ve got the authority. It s quite regu 
lar, and when we re out of this d d 

row I ll show you the papers." 



GALLEGHER. 



165 



He took one hand from Hade s throat 
and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his 
pocket. 

"It s a mistake. This is an outrage," 
gasped the murderer, white and trem 
bling, but dreadfully alive and desperate 
for his liberty. " Let me go, I tell you. 
Take your hands off of me. Do I look 
like a burglar, you fool ? " 

"I know who you look like," whis 
pered the detective, with his face close 
to the face of his prisoner. " Now, will 
you go easy as a burglar, or shall I tell 
these men who you are and what I do 
want you for ? Shall I call out your real 
name or not ? Shall I tell them ? Quick, 
speak up ; shall I ? " 

There was something so exultant 
something so unnecessarily savage in 
the officer s face that the man he held 
saw that the detective knew him for 
what he really was, and the hands that 
had held his throat slipped down around 
his shoulders or he would have fallen. 
The man s eyes opened and closed again, 
and he swayed weakly backward and 
forward, and choked as if his throat 
were dry and burning. Even to such a 
hardened connoisseur in crime as Gal 
legher, who stood closely by drinking 
it in, there was something so abject in 
the man s terror that he regarded him 
with what was almost a touch of pity, 

" For God s sake," Hade begged, let 
me go. Come with me to my room and 
I ll give you half the money. I ll divide 
with you fairly. We can both get away. 
There s a fortune for both of us there. 
We both can get away. You ll be rich 
for life. Do you understand for 
life!" 

But the detective, to his credit, only 
shut his lips the tighter. 

"That s enough," he whispered, in 
return. "That s more than I expect 
ed. You ve sentenced yourself already. 
Come!" 

Two officers in uniform barred their 
exit at the door, but Hefflefinger smiled 
easily and showed his badge. 

" One of Byrnes s men," he said, in 
explanation ; " came over expressly to 
get this chap. He s a burglar ; Arlie 
Lane, alias Carleton. I ve shown the 
papers to the captain. It s all regular. 
I m just going to get his traps at the 
hotel and walk him over to the station. 



I guess we ll push right on to New York 
to-night," 

The officers nodded and smiled their 
admiration for the representative of 
what is, perhaps, the best detective 
force in the world and let him pass. 

Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke 
to Gallegher, who still stood as watch 
ful as a dog at his side. "I m going to 
his room to get the bonds and stuff," 
he whispered ; "then I ll march him to 
the station and take that train. I ve 
done my share, don t forget yours ! " 

" Oh, you ll get your money right 
enough," said Gallegher. " And I say," 
he added, with the appreciative nod of 
an expert, "do you know you did it 
rather well." 

Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the 
raid was settling down, as he had been 
writing while waiting for the fight to be 
gin. Now he walked over to where the 
other correspondents stood in angry 
conclave. 

The newspaper men had informed the 
officers who hemmed them in that they 
represented the principal papers of the 
country, and were expostulating vigor 
ously with the captain who had planned 
the raid and who declared they were 
under arrest. 

"Don t be an ass, Scott," said Mr. 
Dwyer, who was too excited to be polite 
or politic. "You know our being here 
isn t a matter of choice. We came here 
on business, as you did, and you ve no 
right to hold us." 

" If we don t get our stuff on the wire 
at once," protested a New York man, 
"we ll be too late for to-morrow s pa 
per, and 

Captain Scott said he did not care a 
profanely small amount for to-morrow s 
paper, and that all he knew was that to 
the station-house the newspaper men 
would go. There they would have a 
hearing, and if the magistrate chose to 
let them off that was the magistrate s 
business, but that his duty was to take 
them into custody. 

"But then it will be too late, don t 
you understand?" shouted Mr. Dwyer. 
" You ve got to let us go now, at once." 

" I can t do it, Mr.. Dwyer," said the 
captain, "and that s all there is to it. 
Why, haven t I just sent the president 
of the Junior Republican Club to the 



166 



GALLEGHER. 



patrol wagon, the man that put this 
coat on me, and do you think I can let 
you fellows go after that ? You were all 
put under bonds to keep the peace not 
three days ago, and here you re at it 
fighting like badgers. It s worth my 
place to let one of you off." 

What Mr. Dwyer said next was so 
uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain 
Scott that that overwrought individual 
seized the sporting editor by the shoul 
der and shoved him into the hands of 
two of his men. 

This was more than the distinguished 
Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he excit 
edly raised his hand in resistance. But 
before he had time to do anything fool 
ish his wrist was gripped by one strong, 
little hand, and he was conscious that 
another was picking the pocket of his 
great- coat. 

He slapped his hands to his sides, and, 
looking down, saw Gallegher standing 
close behind him and holding him by 
the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had forgotten 
the boy s existence and would have 
spoken sharply if something in Galle- 
gher s innocent eyes had not stopped 
him. 

Gallegher s hand was still in that 
pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had shoved 
his note-book filled with what he had 
written of Gallegher s work and Hade s 
final capture, and with a running de 
scriptive account of the fight. With his 
eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer Gallegher drew 
it out, and with a quick movement 
shoved it inside his waistcoat. Mr. 
Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension. 
Then glancing at his two guardsmen, 
and finding that they were still inter 
ested in the wordy battle of the corre 
spondents with their chief, and had seen 
nothing, he stooped and whispered to 
Gallegher : " The forms are locked at 
twenty minutes to three. If you don t 
get there by that time it will be of no 
use, but if you re on time you ll beat the 
town and the country too." 

Gallegher s eyes flashed significantly, 
and nodding his head to show he under 
stood, started boldly on a run toward the 
door. But the officers who guarded it 
brought him to an abrupt halt, and, 
much to Mr. Dwyer s astonishment, 
drew from him what was apparently a 
torrent of tears. 



"Let me go to me father. I want me 
father," the boy shrieked, hysterically. 
"They ve rested father. Oh, daddy, 
daddy. There a-goin to take you to 
prison." 

"Who is your father, sonny ? " asked 
one of the guardians of the gate. 

" Keppler s me father," sobbed Galle 
gher. "The re a-goin to lock him up 
and I ll never see him no more." 

" Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, 
good-naturedly, " he s there in that first 
patrol wagon. You can run over and 
say good-night to him, and then you d 
better get to bed. This ain t no place 
for kids of your age." 

"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher 
tearfully, as the two officers raised their 
clubs, and let him pass out into the 
darkness. 

The yard outside was in a tumult, 
horses were stamping, and plunging, 
and backing the carriages into one an 
other; lights were flashing from every 
window of what had been apparently an 
uninhabited house, and the voices of 
the prisoners were still raised in angry 
expostulation. 

Three police patrol wagons were 
moving about the yard, filled with un 
willing passengers, who sat or stood, 
packed together like sheep, and with 
no protection from the sleet and rain. 

Gallegher stole off into a dark corner 
and watched the scene until his eye 
sight became familiar with the position 
of the land. 

Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on 
the swinging light of a lantern with 
which an officer was searching among 
the carriages, he groped his way be 
tween horses hoofs and behind the 
wheels of carriages to the cab which 
he had himself placed at the further 
most gate. It was still there, and the 
horse, as he had left it, with its head 
turned toward the city. Gallegher 
opened the big gate noiselessly, and 
worked nervously at the hitching strap. . 
The knot was covered with a thin coat 
ing of ice, and it was several minutes 
before he could loosen it. But his 
teeth finally pulled it apart, and with 
the reins in his hands he sprang upon 
the wheel. And as he stood so, a shock 
of fear ran down his back like an elec 
tric current, his breath left him, and he 



GALLEGHER. 



167 



stood immovable, gazing with wide eyes 
into the darkness. 

The officer with the lantern had sud 
denly loomed up from behind a carriage 
not fifty feet distant, and was standing 
perfectly still, with his lantern held over 
his head, peering so directly toward 
Gallegher that the boy felt that he 
must see him. Gallegher stood with 
one foot on the hub of the wheel and 
with the other on the box waiting to 
spring. It seemed a minute before 
either of them moved, and then the 
officer took a step forward, and de 
manded sternly, " Who is that ? What 
are you doing there ? " 

There was no time for parley then. 
Gallegher felt that he had been taken 
in the act, and that his only chance lay 
in open flight. He leaped up on the 
box, pulling out the whip as he did so, 
and with a quick sweep lashed the 
horse across the head and back. The 
animal sprang forward with a snort, 
narrowly clearing the gate post, and 
plunged off into the darkness. 

" Stop ! " cried the officer. 

So many of Gallegher s acquaintances 
among the longshoremen and mill hands 
had been challenged in so much the 
same manner that Gallegher knew what 
would probably follow if the challenge 
was disregarded. So he slipped from 
his seat to the footboard below, and 
ducked his head. 

The three reports of a pistol, which 
rang out briskly from behind him, proved 
that his early training had given him a 
valuable fund of useful miscellaneous 
knowledge. 

" Don t you be scared," he said, re 
assuringly, to the horse, " he s firing in 
the air." 

The pistol-shots were answered by 
the impatient clangor of a patrol wagon s 
gong, and glancing over his shoulder 
Gallegher saw its red and green lan 
terns tossing from side to side and look 
ing in the darkness like the side-lights 
of a yacht plunging forward in a storm. 

"I hadn t bargained to race you 
against no patrol wagons," said Galle 
gher to his animal ; " but if they want a 
race we ll give them a tough tussle for 
it, won t we ? " 

Philadelphia, lying four miles to the 
south, sent up a faint yellow glow to 



the sky. It seemed very far away, 
and Gallegher s braggadocio grew cold 
within him at the loneliness of his ad 
venture and the thought of the long 
ride before him. 

It was still bitterly cold. 

The rain and sleet beat through his 
clothes, and struck his skin with a 
sharp chilling touch that set him trern- 



the thought of the over-weighted 
patrol wagon probably sticking in the 
mud some safe distance in the rear, failed 
to cheer him, and the excitement that 
had so far made him callous to the cold 
died out and left him weaker and ner 
vous. 

But his horse was chilled with the 
long standing, and now leaped eagerly 
forward, only too willing to warm the 
half-frozen blood in its veins. 

" You re a good beast," said Gallegher, 
plaintively. "You ve got more nerve 
than me. Don t you go back on me now. 
Mr. Dwyer says we ve got to beat the 
town." Gallegher had no idea what time 
it was as he rode through the night, but 
he knew he would be able to find out 
from the big clock over a manufactory 
at a point nearly three quarters of the 
distance from Keppler s to the goal. 

He was still in the open country and 
driving recklessly, for he knew the best 
part of his ride must be made outside 
the city limits. 

| He raced between desolate-looking 
corn-fields with bare stalks and patches 
of muddy earth rising above the thin 
covering of snow, truck farms and brick 
yards fell behind him on either side. It 
was very lonely work, and once or twice 
the dogs ran yelping to the gates and 
barked after him. 

Part of his way lay parallel with the 
railroad tracks, and he drove for some 
time beside long lines of freight and coal 
cars as they stood resting for the night. 
The fantastic Queen Anne suburban 
stations were dark and deserted, but in 
one or two of the block-towers he could 
see the operators writing at their desks, 
and the sight in some way comforted 
him. 

Once he thought of stopping to get 
out the blanket in which he had wrapped 
himself on the first trip, but he feared 
to spare the time, and drove on with his 



168 



GALLEGHER. 



teeth chattering and his shoulders shak 
ing with the cold. 

He welcomed the first solitary row of 
darkened houses with a faint cheer of 
recognition. The scattered lamp-posts 
lightened his spirits, and even the badly 
paved streets rang under the beats of 
his horse s feet like music. Great mills 
and manufactories, with only a night- 
watchman s light in the lowest of their 
many stories began to take the place of 
the gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees 
that had startled him with their gro 
tesque shapes. He had been driving 
nearly an hour he calculated, and in that 
time the rain had changed to a wet snow 
that fell heavily and clung to whatever 
it touched. He passed block after block 
of trim workmen s houses, as still and 
silent as the sleepers within them, and 
at last he turned the horse s head into 
Broad Street, the city s great thorough 
fare that stretches from its one end to 
the other and cuts it evenly in two. 

He was driving noiselessly over the 

ow and slush in the street, with his 
thoughts bent only on the clock face he 
wished so much to see, when a hoarse 
voice challenged him from the sidewalk, 
"Hey, you, stop there, hold up," said 
the voice. 

Gallegher turned his head, and though 
he saw that the voice came from under 
a policeman s helmet, his only answer 
was to hit his horse sharply over the head 
with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. 

This, on his part, was followed by a 
sharp, shrill whistle from the policeman. 
Another whistle answered it from a 
street-corner one block ahead of him. 
" Whoa," said Gallegher pulling on the 
reins. "There s one too many of them," 
he added, in apologetic explanation. 
The horse stopped and stood, breathing 
heavily, with great clouds of steam ris 
ing from its flanks. 

" Why in hell didn t you stop when I 
told you to ? " demanded the voice, now 
close at the cab s side. 

"I didn t hear you," returned Galle 
gher, sweetly. " But I heard you whis 
tle and I heard your partner whistle, 
and I thought maybe it was me you 
wanted to speak to, so I just stopped." 

" You heard me well enough. Why 
aren t your lights lit?" demanded the 
voice. 



"Should I have em lit?" asked Galle 
gher, bending over and regarding them 
with sudden interest. 

"You know you should, and if you 
don t you ve no right to be driving that 
cab. I don t believe you re the regular 
driver anyway. Where d you get it." 

"It ain t my cab, of course," said Gal 
legher, with an easy laugh. " It s Luke 
McGovern s. He left it outside Cronin s 
while he went in to get a drink, and he 
took too much, and me father told me 
to drive it round to the stable for him. 
I m Cronin s son. McGovern ain t in no 
condition to drive. You can see your 
self how he s been misusing the horse. 
He puts it up at Bachman s livery stable, 
and I was just going around there now." 

Gallegher s knowledge of the local 
celebrities of the district confused the 
zealous officer of the peace. He sur 
veyed the boy with a steady stare that 
would have distressed a less skilful liar, 
but Gallegher only shrugged his should 
ers slightly, as if from the cold, and 
waited with apparent indifference to 
what the officer would say next. 

In reality his heart was beating heav 
ily against his side, and he felt that if 
he was kept on a strain much longer 
he would give way and break down. A 
second snow-covered form emerged sud 
denly from the shadow of the houses. 

" What is it, Keeder ? " it asked. 

" Oh, nothing much," replied the first 
officer. " This kid hadn t any lamps 
lit, so I called to him to stop and he 
didn t do it, so I whistled to you. It s 
all right though. He s just taking it 
round to Bachman s. Go ahead," he 
added, sulkily. 

" Get up," chirped Gallegher. " Good 
night," he added over his shoulder. 

Gallegher gave an hysterical little 
gasp of relief as he trotted away from 
the two policemen, and poured bitter 
maledictions on their heads for two 
meddling fools as he went. 

-^ They might as well kill a man as 
scare him to death," he said, with an at 
tempt to get back to his customary flip 
pancy. But the effort was somewhat 
pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that 
a salt-warm tear was creeping slowly 
down his face, and that a lump that 
would not keep down was rising in his> 
throat. 



GALLEGHER. 



169 



" Tain t no fair thing for the whole 
police force to keep worrying at a little 
boy like me," he said, in shame-faced 
apology. " I m not doing nothing 
wrong, and I m half froze to death, and 
yet they keep a- 
nagging at me." 

It was so cold 
that when the boy 
stamped his feet 
against the foot 
board to keep 
them warm sharp 
pains shot up 
through his body, 
and when he beat 
his arms about his 
shoulders, as he 
had seen real cab 
men do, the blood 
in his finger-tips 
tingled so acutely 
that he cried aloud 
with the pain. 

He had often 
been up that late 
before, but he had 
never felt so sleepy. 
It was as if some 
one was pressing 
a sponge heavy 
with chloroform 
near his face, and 
he could not fight 
off the drowsiness 
that lay hold of 
him. 

He saw, dimly 
hanging above his 
head, a round disc 
of light that seem 
ed like a great moon, and which he finally 
guessed to be the clock face for which he 
had been on the look out. He had passed 
it before he realized this, but the fact 
stirred him into wakefulness again, and 
when his cab s wheels slipped around 
the City Hall corner he remembered to 
look up at the other big clock face that 
keeps awake over the railroad station 
and measures out the night. 

He gave a gasp of consternation when 
he saw that it was half -past two, and that 
there was but ten minutes left to him. 
This, and the many electric lights and 
the sight of the familiar pile of build 
ings startled him into a semi-conscious- 
VOL. VIII. 17 



ness of where he was and how great was 
the necessity for haste. 

He rose in his seat and called on the 
horse and urged it into a reckless gallop 
over the slippery asphalt. He considered 
nothing else but 
speed, and looking 
neither to the left 
nor right dashed 
off clown Broad 
Street into Chest 
nut, where his 
course lay straight 
away to the office, 
now only seven 
blocks distant. 

Gallegher never 
knew how it be 
gan, but he was 
suddenly assaulted 
by shouts on either 
side, his horse was 
thrown back on its 
haunches, and he 
found two men in 
cabmen s livery 
hanging at its head 
and patting its 
sides and calling it 
by name. And the 
other cabmen who 
have their stand at 
the corner were 
swarming about 
the carriage, all of 
them talking and 
swearing at once, 
and gesticulating 
wildly with their 
whips. 

They said they 

knew the cab was McGovern s, and they 
wanted to know where he was and why 
he wasn t on it ; they wanted to know 
where Gallegher had stolen it, and why 
he had been such a fool as to drive it 
into the arms of its owner s friends ; 
they said that it was about time that a 
cab-driver could get off his box to take 
a drink without having his cab run away 
with, and some of them called loudly for 
a policeman to take the young thief in 
charge. 

Gallegher felt as if he had been sud 
denly dragged into consciousness out of 
a bad dream, and stood for a second like 
a half-awakened somnambulist. 




The detective placed his hands on his knees and Galle 
gher stood on his shoulders." Page 162. 



170 



GALLEGHER. 



They had stopped the cab under an 
electric light, and its glare shone coldly 
down upon the trampled snow and the 
faces of the men around him. 

Gallegher bent forward and lashed 
savagely at the horse with his whip. 

" Let me go," he shouted as he tugged 
impotently at the reins. "Let me go, 
I tell you. I haven t stole no cab, and 
you ve got no right to stop me. I only 
want to take it to the Press office," he 
begged. " They ll send it back to you all 
right. They ll pay you for the trip. I m 
not running away with it. The driver s 
got the collar he s rested and I m 
only a-going to the Press office. Do you 
hear me ? " he cried, his voice rising and 
breaking in a shriek of passion and 
disappointment. " I tell you to let go 
those reins. Let me go or I ll kill you. 
Do you hear me ? I ll kill you." And 
leaning forward the boy struck heavily 
with his long whip at the faces of the 
men about the horse s head. 

Some one in the crowd reached up 
and caught him by the ankles and with 
a quick jerk pulled him off the box and 
threw him on to the street. But he was 
up on his knees in a moment and caught 
at the man s hand. 

" Don t let them stop me, mister," he 
cried, "please let me go. I didn t steal 
the cab, sir. S help me I didn t. I m 
telling you the truth. Take me to the 
Press office and they ll prove it to you. 
They ll pay you anything you ask em. 
It s only such a little ways now, and 
I ve come so far, sir. Please don t let 
them stop me," he sobbed, clasping the 
man about the knees. " For Heaven s 
sake, mister, let me go." 

The managing editor of the Press 
took up the india-rubber speaking-tube 
at his side and answered " Not yet " to 
an inquiry the night editor had already 
put to him five times within the last 
twenty minutes. 

Then he snapped the metal top of the 
tube impatiently and went up-stairs. As 
he passed the door of the local room 
he noticed that the reporters had not 
gone home, but were sitting about on 
the tables and chairs waiting. They 
looked up inquiringly as he passed, and 
the city editor asked, "Any news yet? " 
and the managing editor shook his head. 



The compositors were standing idle 
in the composing-room, and their fore 
man was talking with the night editor. 

"Well," said that gentleman, tenta 
tively. 

"Well," returned the managing edi 
tor, "I don t think we can wait; do 
you?" 

" It s a half hour after time now," said 
the night editor, " and we ll miss the 
suburban trains if we hold the paper 
back any longer. We can t afford to 
wait for a purely h} T pothetical story. 
The chances are all against the fight s 
having taken place or this Hade s hav 
ing been arrested." 

" But if we re beaten on it " sug 
gested the chief. "But I don t think 
that is possible. If there were any 
story to print, Dwyer would have had 
it here before now." 

The managing editor looked steadily 
clown at the floor. 

" Very well," he said, slowly, " we 
won t wait any longer. Go ahead," he 
added, turning to the foreman with a 
sigh of reluctance. The foreman whirled 
himself about and began to give his 
orders, but the two editors still looked 
at each other doubtfully. 

As they stood so, there came a sud 
den shout and the sound of people 
running to and fro in the reportorial 
rooms below. There was the tramp of 
many footsteps on the stairs, and above 
the confusion they heard the voice of 
the city editor telling some one to " run 
to Madden s and get some brandy, 
quick." 

No one in the composing-room said 
anything; but those compositors who 
had started to go home began slipping 
off their overcoats, and every one stood 
with their eyes fixed on the door. 

It was kicked open from the outside, 
and in the doorway stood a cab-driver 
and the city editor, supporting between 
them a pitiful little figure of a boy, wet 
and miserable, and with the snow melt 
ing on his clothes and running in little 
pools to the floor. "Why, it s Galle 
gher," said the night editor, in a tone 
of the keenest disappointment. 

Gallegher shook himself free from 
his supporters, and took an unsteady 
step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly 
with the buttons of his waistcoat. 



GALLEGHER. 



171 



" Mr. Dwyer, sir," he began faintly, men as rapidly as a gambler deals out 
with his eyes fixed fearfully on the cards, 
managing editor, "he got arrested Then the managing editor stooped 




For God s sake," Hade begged, " let me go ! " Page 165. 



and I couldn t get here no sooner, cause 
they kept a stopping me, and they took 
me cab from under me but he 
pulled the notebook from his breast 
and held it out with its covers damp 
and limp from the rain, "but we got 
Hade, and here s Mr. Dwyer s copy." 

And then he asked, with a queer note 
in his voice, partly of dread and partly 
of hope, " Am I in time, sir ? " 

The managing editor took the book, 
and tossed it to the foreman, who ripped 
out its leaves and dealt them out to his 



and picked GaUegher up in his arms, 
and, sitting down, began to unlace his 
wet and muddy shoes. 

Gallegher made a faint effort to resist 
this degradation of the managerial dig 
nity, but his protest was a very feeble 
one, and his head fell back heavily on 
the managing editor s shoulder. 

To GaUegher the incandescent lights 
began to whirl about in circles, and to 
burn in different colors ; the faces of the 
reporters kneeling before him and chaf 
ing his hands and feet grew dim and 



172 



GALLEGHER. 




"Why, it s Gallagher," said the night editor. Page 170. 



unfamiliar, and the roar and rumble of 
the great presses in the basement sound 
ed far away, like the murmur of the 



sea. 



And then the place and the circum 
stances of it came back to him again 
sharply and with sudden vividness. 

Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, 
into the managing editor s face. "You 
won t turn me off for running away, will 
you ? " he whispered. 

The managing editor did not answer 



immediately. His head was bent, and 
he was thinking, for some reason or 
other, of a little boy of his own, at home 
in bed. Then he said, quietly, "Not 
this time, Gallegher." 

Gallegher s head sank back comfort 
ably on the older man s shoulder, and 
he smiled comprehensively at the faces 
of the young men crowded around him. 
" You hadn t ought to," he said, with a 
touch of his old impudence, " cause I 
beat the town." 



SERGEANT GORE. 

By LeRoy Armstrong. 




NLISTED men in the 
regular army do not in 
dulge in much court 
ing of any kind. These 
sons of Mars who hold 
the outworks of the realm are not often 
afforded an opportunity to court even 
danger. Fame, that is supposed to lurk 
in cannons mouths, there to be sought 
by aspiring young gentlemen who make 
a living by the extinguishment of other 
aspiring young gentlemen, is a thing 
so rarely heard about in the army of 
the United States that sluggish blood, 
tamed by some drill and much fatigue, 
is never moved to deeds of daring. 
Fortune is, if possible, farther away 
than promotion, for the legions are not 
munificently rewarded, and the soldier 
who can loan money is a personage cer 
tain of distinction. 

And as for courtship, which involves 
a gentler, fairer sex, that is quite out of 
the question. At their quarters, in the 
tedium of walking post, and on the long 
rides down the valley when " mounted 
pass " rewards good conduct, some of 
the men may cherish these dreams of 
fair women, but they always set the sea 
son of their felicity far in the future 
when captivity shall have been turned to 
freedom. 

But now and then even the ignoble 
recruit in the regular army finds an ob 
ject about which he may moan and 
dream. It may not be a face or figure 
that would inspire great deeds in those 
who have more frequent views of women ; 
but beauty is a matter of comparisons. 
The " handsomest woman in the valley " 
wears a diadem as dear to her as that 
which graces the " loveliest ladv in the 
city." 

Fort Bidwell had but one unmarried 
woman in the whole confines of the res 
ervation, and she was a half-Spanish 
maiden who attended the commanding 
officer s children. Her father had been 
an army officer, who consoled himself 
for assignment to Fort Yuma by marry 
ing the belle of the region a territory 



that is even yet far more Castilian than 
Saxon. Judged by all canons of beauty 
Terita was not handsome. She was 
short and dark, low-browed, and gifted 
with a mouth of most generous extent ; 
but then, she was young, her hands and 
feet were small and shapely, her eyes 
were deep and dark, and she had her 
mother s very witchery of dress. Seen 
beside the wives of the officers, Terita 
suffered somewhat ; but then no soldier 
ever saw her there. To them she was 
ever alone and unshamed by compari 
sons. 

When she wheeled the colonel s chil 
dren down the esplanade of an after 
noon the time of all times when an 
American camp is lazy the men would 
. vie with each other in attentions. True, 
they could not do much, and the first 
man at her side, if not dislodged by 
Terita s frowns, was master of the sit 
uation. 

But the sun shone brightly on the 
esplanade all the afternoon, while just 
across the creek which formed one 
boundary of the parade-ground was a 
level stretch of grass that lay like a car 
pet right up to the foot of a massive, 
towering wall of granite. The time- 
honored excuse for accosting the maid 
was to assist her and the children across 
this brook on a series of stepping-stones 
so much more desirable than any 
bridge could have been. Once over, 
the commonest kind of courtesy de 
manded that Terita permit her adorer 
to walk up and down with her, to fill 
the admiring, envious eyes of all the 
garrison, and to win the colonel s graces 
no less than the girl s, by preventing 
any of the little blunderers from falling 
in the brook. 

It was, indeed, to the rank and file, 
" the shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land." 

Of course, all this implied a well- 
dressed soldier, the patient buffing of 
buttons, the polishing of shoes, and the 
tact to simply happen on the esplanade 
not rush there as though this were 



174 



SERGEANT GORE. 



the one tiling which could make a man 
tidy and agreeable. And while four 
out of every five men in the fort would 



could expect she would dismiss the 
others, and keep herself for him only. 
But the girl was rapidly developing a 






When she wheeled the colonel s children down the esplanade. 



have given a month s pay any time to 
walk and talk with her, to touch her 
hand at chance intervals, and to wake 
that merry Southern laugh, not nearly 
that proportion cared to give the time 
and trouble necessary ; and a still small 
er number was prepared to march out 
there and run the risk of impalement on 
that keen glance, not to mention the 
ridicule such a fate would involve when 
one returned to the squad-room. 

Yet the strife for her smiles was warm 
enough, and several shared with some 
approach to equality the honor of at 
tending Terita, though not one of them 



stronger liking for Sergeant Gore than 
for anybody else. He was so handsome, 
so at ease ; his blue eyes shone with 
such a light, and his soft, white hands 
were so caressingly tender when they 
touched her own. 

He was so faultlessly dressed, and 
was so plainly accustomed some time in 
the past to even better company than 
hers, that Terita always greeted him 
with a surer welcome, walked with him 
longer, and was plainly happier with 
him than with the other men. And so 
it came to pass when rival admirers out 
witted Sergeant Gore and gained the 






SERGEANT GORE. 



175 



coveted position, she grew to inquiring 
about that young man ; grew to speak 
of his dress, his learning, his better 
past. All this was gall and wormwood 
to the gallants who heard it, and one by 
one they read dismissal in the queries, 
and left the field to Gore. 

He was not the only man of good fam 
ily whom Dame Fortune, in a perverse 
mood, had sent to the ranks of the reg 
ular army ; he was one of many. But 
his face and figure, no less than his 
family-tree, were his title-deeds of no 
bility. Sergeant Gore s weekly letter 
from his Philadelphia home had long 
been one of the events at the squad- 
rooms in Bidwell. A chosen few might 
listen to some passages. A somewhat 
larger circle had seen the photographs 
of mother and sisters, and knew the 
home-life of the Gores was one to envy. 
They paid him their highest compli- 



During the Modoc war young Billy 
Somers, just out of a civilian college at 
the East, dared the rigors of a campaign 
in the lava beds, quartering himself on 
his brother, the first lieutenant of Com 
pany G, First Cavalry. When Captain 
Jack and his three unclean abettors were 
hanged at Klamath for defying the flag 
and slaying the men who bore it, young 
William asked for a commission in the 
army. The officers in general endorsed 
his application, for he was an uncommon 
ly agreeable fellow, and all declared his 
deserts firmly grounded on " brave and 
meritorious conduct in the Modoc war." 

Pending the action of the Secretary 
of War the young man paid a visit to 
his friends in San Francisco, and then, 
as the unfruitful months vanished, he 
came to Bidwell and again accepted the 
hospitality of his brother. He found a 
comfortable seat on the broad balcony 







\ 



There smoked good "conchas" and watched the golden afternoons drift by. 

ment by being interested in that fairer of Lieutenant Somers s quarters, and 

half of life, and asking respectfully, when there smoked good " conchas " and 

the quarters were stillest, about those watched the golden afternoons drift by. 

from whom his honor kept him alien. He saw Terita, and being almost an 



176 



SERGEANT GORE. 



officer, if not already crowned with a 
commission, he needed no introduction, 
and, indeed, very little formality of 
any kind, to claim her acquaintance. 
The girl was flattered by his attentions, 



in secret many times, vexed that fate 
gave her a choice so grievous ; and she 
was often very good to Gore, though he, 
poor fellow, would come back to quar 
ters with not enough of reason left to 










" Let us walk on the grass beyond the creek to-night." Page 180. 



although the more surely he was an of 
ficer the smaller the chance for any 
union. But he found many pretexts 
for being with her. When his commis 
sion should come he might be assigned 
to some post in the South, and his 
Spanish was in woful need of dressing. 
And she well, she was a woman, and 
not averse to compliment. 

The children were seldom lifted across 
the creek now. Terita said the espla 
nade was good enough. And she could 
not encourage Sergeant Gore to walk 
with her there, where every turn brought 
them under Lieutenant Somers s bal 
cony. Yet she did love him. She wept 



distinguish between a daily detail and a 
death sentence. 

But at last the commons triumphed. 
Billy Somers s commission didn t come ; 
maybe it never would. She fed the 
hope and let her heart follow T its strong 
er bending. Gore was in ecstasies. He 
had less than a year to serve, and then 
an honorable discharge would restore 
him, somewhat like the prodigal son, to 
a father s house where there was plenty. 

Terita slipped from her room one 
night and met her lover on the grassy 
walk beyond the creek. They strolled 
up and down there in the moonlight, 
busy with pictures that are never un- 



SERGEANT GORE. 



Ill 



veiled but once in all the world. Gore 
wore his finest uniform, and strapped to 
his side, lifted from clanking against his 
spurs, was his burnished sabre ; for he 
was sergeant of the guard to-day. 

Why will a woman love the tools of 
war ? What is there in a sword to fire 
her with devotion for the wight who 
carries it ? No one knows, yet that has 
been her weakness since JEneas won the 
heart of Dido. 

The mail had arrived to-day, and its 
chief treasure, his letter from home, was 
recited at length to the fairy by his side. 
Terita listened and clung to this hand 
some fellow ; she stroked his massive 
arm, she touched his face, she sang him 
songs of love in the soft Spanish of her 
mother-tongue and she turned like a 
panther when a man came quickly 
around the base of the great rock and 
approached her lover threateningly. 

It was Billy Somers. 

"Go to the guard-house, Gore," he 
said. "You have no business here." 

But the sergeant knew his footing. 
He was trespassing on regulations ; he 
was well aware of that, but between 
him and any citizen he was the better 
armed just now. 

"I don t know why I should take or 
ders from you," he said, calmly and 
firmly ; then he added, " Mr. Somers," 
with a possible emphasis on the title. 

" You are sergeant of the guard. Go 
to your post, or I will have your belts 
off in ten minutes." 

" You go slow, or I will have you in 
the bottom of the creek .in ten seconds," 
came in anger from the soldier. Then 
he added again, as thrust, reminder, 
taunting all in one " Mr. Somers." 

" Lieutenant Somers," corrected the 
other, with an undoubted emphasis on 
the title. 

" Lieutenant ? " cried the girl, with an 
inflection of inquiry. 

"Lieutenant ! " echoed Gore, in deep 
derision. He did not believe the Sec 
retary of War would ever make that 
man an officer. 

" Yes, lieutenant," said Somers, sharp 
ly. " My commission came to-day." 

That settled it. He was clearly mas 
ter here. But Gore was game. He 
took Terita s hand and led her across 
the brook on the stepping-stones that 
VOL. VIIL 18 



long had paved the way from earth to 
paradise stones that memory would 
bind about his neck hereafter, while he 
struggled in the infinite sea of despair. 

But he would have given a sixth year 
of service in the barracks for just one 
hour at the hay corral with that subal 
tern. 

" Good-night, Terita," he said, as he 
reached her door. There was no at 
tempt at hushing his voice as became a 
plebeian on the borders of patrician 
realms. He lifted his cap with perfect 
grace, bowed low and went away, proud 
as a gentleman. 

All the officers and their families, sit 
ting the evening out upon their bal 
conies, saw the episode ; but they had 
not seen that brief passage at arms 
across the creek. The officer of the day 
only knew that here was a sergeant of 
the guard gallanting a girl when he 
should have been at his post. He put 
on his hat and called to the retreating 
figure, while Terita wrung her hands in 
an agony for Gore, then pressed them 
in rejoicing for Somers s good fortune. 

The two men met half-way across the 
parade-ground. 

" What are you doing, sergeant ? " 

"Disobeying orders, I fear, sir," an 
swered the culprit, saluting. 

" Go to your post. I shall report you 
in the morning." 

They saluted again and parted. That 
night Sergeant Gore was Upton person 
ified in his strict adherence to regula 
tions. Next morning he was relieved 
before guard mount, and the corporal 
turned over " the fort and all its stores " 
to the succeeding detail. 

"Lieutenant William Somers says 
you insulted him last night," said the 
commanding officer sternly, when he 
had summoned Gore before him. The 
non-commissioned man told the whole 
story just as it was. 

" Go back to your quarters, and never 
let such conduct occur again." 

Gore was out of it easier than he had 
expected. He was not even reduced to 
the ranks. Surely that grim old colonel 
saw more than the surface of things. 

But Terita? Well, she grew very 
chilling. Young Lieutenant Somers hon 
ored her with a horseback ride down 
the valley, though his conduct met stern 



178 



SERGEANT GORE. 



disapproval from the other officers and 
their wives. It was one thing for Te- 
rita to be courted by an enlisted man 
soon to leave the service ; it was quite 
another for an officer to show her favors 
and she a waiting-maid ! 

Sergeant Gore was not reduced to the 
ranks, but he might have been for all he 
cared. He was hopelessly smitten by 
that little girl. He could not wake his 
pride and dismiss all thought of her. 
He grew less tidy, and his springing 
gait became a painful drag. He did his 
duty in a slip-shod way, and only roused 
to interest when the squad-rooms were 
agog with speculation as to where 
" Lieutenant Billy " would be assigned 
for service. He only listened to their 
chatter when the men recounted some 
new freak of that late-fledged lieutenant. 
His arrogance, his tyranny, his petty 
spite, won him a place of singular dis 
like. Gore hoped, yet dreaded, that the 
time would come when he could wreak 
his anger on that upstart. He did 
much violence to his blood and training 
as he pictured some possible collision. 
He thought of Achilles, who was bereft 
by a baser, not a better, soldier and 
smiled at the stupendous vanity pent in 
the simile. 

A month went by. The new lieuten 
ant had an open field for Terita, so far 
as rivals went, but he still found rough 
sailing in the social waters. At last, in 
self-defence, he announced his intention 
to marry the girl as soon as he was as 
signed to duty, and said, in a burst of 
heroics, that he would be proud to take 
her with him as his wife wherever he 
might go. And from that time his woo 
ing was frowned on less hardly than be 
fore. 

But that assignment to duty! It 
troubled him far more than anyone else. 
Until it came that Spanish damsel held 
him at a most tantalizing arm s length. 
It was very provoking. He prayed for 
the Presidio, near San Francisco ; he 
dreaded Fort Yuma or St. Francis. 

Sergeant Gore lay half-asleep on a 
bench in front of the quarters, and 
gazed at that point of rocks across the 
parade - ground. The October wind 
lifted his blond hair and blew it about, 
shaming him for neglecting the barber. 
It occurred to him that the mail-coach 



was due to-day, and he was not so tidy 
as he should be when his letter came. 
He glanced down at his uniform, at his 
dusty boots ; he passed his palm across 
a very stubble-field of cheek. He waked 
to the consciousness that all this was un 
manly, not to say unsoldier-like, no mat 
ter what the provocation, and he drew 
himself together with a quick resolve to 
be more worthy of that distant home 
where he was waited with such patient 
love. 

As he set his face toward the rather 
humble house of tonsure some quality in 
the rising wind attracted him. An ar 
row of cold, like an icy needle, shot its 
warning through the warmer air. In 
the northwest, hovering on the ragged 
peaks of Shasta, were banks of leaden 
clouds, while just overhead, with lower 
ing pressure, swept the fleecy vanguard 
of the storm. 

" Blizzard to-night," said Gore, senten- 
tiously, to the barber ; and then, in a 
tone more lif e-like than they had known 
in weeks, he added : " One shave, one 
haircut, one waxed mustache," and 
clambered in the chair. 

When he left the place an hour later 
he was the Gore of other days. Not 
a fleck of dust stained the dark blue 
of his garments ; not a touch of soil 
dimmed the lustre of his shoes, while 
buttons, linen, sunny locks, and all 
marked the model soldier. 

Just before him a little heap of leaves 
and grasses woke in confusion and 
scampered up the spiral staircase of the 
wind. Over in the great corral swine 
were borrowing trouble with loud, in 
cisive cries, and carrying wisps of hay 
into the lee of heavy walls. The army of 
clouds that stood on Shasta when he 
passed before had advanced a score of 
miles, and gusts of cold, like scouts, 
were trying the passages of canon and 
hill. Light flakes of snow shot by, fell 
in a group on the porch at the quarters, 
and whirled in a waltz to the sharp 
whistling of the storm. 

"Put on your overcoats," said the 
sergeant of the guard to the relief. In 
side the squad-room some men were 
kindling a fire. Gore watched them 
through the window, then walked brisk 
ly to and fro the length of the building. 
He was erect, clear-brained, deep-breath- 



SERGEANT GORE. 



179 



ing, exultant. His vigor was wakened 
by the tonic of frost. 

Snow drifted in long, loose ridges 
across the parade-ground, as the sun 
down roll was called. At tattoo the blast 
had grown so bitter that the men stood 
close in the shelter of the buildings, as 
in midwinter ; while the officer of the 
day, in top-boots and field-cloak, was 
buried to the knees in the gathering 
drifts. Taps, the final bugle-call of the 
day, was drowned in the louder trumpet- 
ings of the hurricane. 

Gore thought of his horse, and stole 
from the barracks to make sure of the 
animal s comfort. The storm was rag 
ing. Winds, like moistened lashes, 
whipped his face. He bent his head 
and ran, stumbling over unfamiliar 
things, tripping, recovering, and chafing 
his freezing wrists. Surely he had gone 
far enough. He was bewildered. He 
turned his back and tried to find the 
outlines of the buildings or the hills. 
Vision could not pierce beyond that 
mad, tempestuous whirl of sleety snow. 

He was lost ! 

But under the chilling paralysis of 
that moment, when life and death con 
tended with just lengthened lances, the 
heart of the man rose with a throb of 
defiance. He would not be frozen. 
Where was the corral? the quarters? 
where was he ? One moment of confu 
sion meant a panic and the end. One 
moment of calmness might save him. He 
shouted aloud, but the vicious demon of 
the storm snatched the message and 
shattered it scattered it to all the winds 
at once. He knew it could not be heard 
ten yards away. But he called again, 
and just as calmly. Somewhere in that 
hurrying blast was surely a breeze that 
would carry the cry to willing ears. He 
tried again. 

Then, behind him just a little way, 
rose an answer. He turned and called 
quickly. Quicker still came a response. 
But this new voice was one of beseech 
ing. It was a plea for help. Gore strug 
gled toward it, guided by its rising, 
waking, hopeful repetition. He stum 
bled blindly against a fence and knew 
his bearings in an instant. 

There to his right, buried in the drift, 
battling feebly to escape, crouched 
"Lieutenant Billy. 



Gore gazed on him in silence just one 
moment ; but in that little lapse of time 
his bosom was a battle-field of tempests 
as fierce as that without. How easy to 
end it all just here ! No need to touch 
him ; no need to speak. No one on 
earth would ever know he stood above 
those epaulets and took receipt in full 
for slavery. 

Just one moment, and then a breath 
from that good home in far-off Philadel 
phia flashed past the leagues that lay 
between, and stirred his heart to man 
hood. 

" Hello there, Lieutenant ! " he shout 
ed, grasping a numbed arm with one 
hand, while with the other he held to 
the fence as to a life-line that could bear 
them both to safety. "Hello, there! 
Get up ! You re freezing." 

The bewildered man rose stiffly, grasp 
ing wildly for support. He could not 
walk ; he could not stand. He fell full 
length and helpless in the snow. 

Gore stooped and wrapped his strong 
arms about the prostrate body ; he raised 
it to his shoulder and then crowded 
along against the fence till it led him to 
the quarters. 

A month of fairest weather followed, 
and not a vestige of the storm-wrought 
ruin could be seen in the valley. Ser 
geant Gore was discipline again. He 
didn t care about Terita, and he was 
quits with Somers. His arms shone re 
splendent, his uniform was a model of 
beauty, his conduct was all that a soldier 
could desire. He declined with dignity 
the lieutenant s invitation to come to 
the officers quarters and be thanked. 

" Tell him," he said to the orderly, 
" that I saved him just as I would a 
steer or a pony. I don t care a copper 
whether he gets well or not." 

This was far from true ; but the 
brute in man is sometimes so 1 strong 
that it demands concessions, and they 
must be made. He could not forget, 
and it was still more impossible to for 
give. 

He was strolling past the esplanade 
one day, upright, defiant. The mail had 
just brought him a letter from home. 
It raised him visibly above all things in 
Bidwell. It warmed and comforted 
it satisfied him. 



180 



SERGEANT GORE. 



Terita leaned from the colonel s bal 
cony and accosted him. 

" So glad to see you," she said. " I 
have wanted to talk with you. Let us 
walk on the grass beyond the creek to 
night." 

"What will Somers say ? " 

How perverse he was. But even as 
he watched for the effect of his thrust, 
his heart leaped wildly. Oh, those lit 
tle hands, that gladsome face, those 
ripe, red lips ! 

"Why," with a laugh, "what do I 
care ? " 

Plainly the new commission had lost 
its charms. 

" I ll come," said Gore, not quite so 
heartily as he once had done, but with 
a vein of independence that was worth 
much to him. 

That night they crossed the creek, 
treading those blessed stepping-stones, 
and walked in the moonlight again. 
The evenings were chilling now, and Te 
rita wore a true Castilian mantilla. 
They talked of everything but one. 
She" sang the old songs, she laughed 
and nattered him ; she won him utterly, 
and then she said : 



" You were so good to save Lieuten 
ant Billy. Poor fellow, he is so grate 
ful to you." 

Gore sniffed his contempt. 

" He has been assigned to duty at I 
can t remember." 

" The Presidio ? " with fear and trem 
bling. 

" No oh, my, no. At Fort Buford, 
in northern Dakota. His orders came 
to-day." 

Talk of anything now. She has 
spread her net, has secured her prize ; 
here she transfixed him. When he left 
her that night Sergeant Gore trod on 
zephyrs. He was too happy to lie in 
bed even after taps, and stole away be 
yond the boiling springs to walk alone 
and fashion castles in the air castles 
that in these later days he has peopled 
with the fairies of love requited, the 
genii of manhood s strength and wom 
an s blessing. 

And Terita? Why, time has given 
stature, rarest comeliness, and unswerv 
ing truth to her. She is prouder of her 
home, her handsome husband, and her 
pretty children, than ever was the wife 
of a grandee in Spain. 





By Tbomas Bailey Aldrich. 

AGLAE, a widow. 

MURIEL, her unmarried sister. 

IT happened once, in that brave land that lies 
For half the twelve-month arched by sombre skies, 
Two sisters loved one man. He being dead, 
Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed, 
And all the passion that through heavy years 
Had masked in smiles, unmasked itself in tears. 
No purer love may mortals know than this, 
The hidden love that guards another s bliss. 
High in a turret s westward-facing room, 
Whose painted window held the sunset s bloom, 
The two together grieving, each to each 
Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech. 
Both still were young, in life s rich summer yet ; 
And one was dark, with tints of violet 
In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she 
Who rose a second daybreak from the sea, 
Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place, 
Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face. 

She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair 
No wreath had worn, nor widow s weed might wear, 
And told her blameless love, and knew no shame 
Her holy love that, like a vestal flame 
Beside the sacred body of some queen 
Within a guarded crypt, had burned unseen 
From weary year to year. And she who heard 
Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word, 
But drawing closer, on the troubled brow 
Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow! 



182 THE SISTERS TRAGEDY. 

MUKIEL. 

Be still, my heart ! Grown patient with thine ache, 
Thou should st be dumb yet needs must speak, or break. 
The world is empty, now that he is gone. 

AGLAE. 
Ay, sweetheart ! 

MURIEL. 

None was like him, no, not one. 
From other men he stood apart, alone 
In honor spotless as unfallen snow. 
Nothing all evil was it his to know ; 
His charity still found some germ, some spark 
Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark. 
He read men s souls ; the lowly and the high 
Moved on the self-same level in his eye. 
Gracious to all, to none subservient, 
Without offence he spake the word he meant 
His word no trick of tact or courtly art, 
But the white flowering of the noble heart. 
Careless he was of much the world counts gain, 
Careless of self, too simple to be vain, 
Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake 
He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake. 
I saw how could I help but love ? And you ? 

AGLAE. 

At this perfection did I worship too. . . . 
Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say ! 
I meant it not, my wits are gone astray, 
With all that is and has been. No, I lie 
Had he been less perfection, happier I ! 

MURIEL. 

Strange words and wild ! Tis the distracted mind 
Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find. 

AGLAE. 

Yet twere as plain as writing on a scroll 
Had you but eyes to read within my soul. 
How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood, 
Poisons the healthful currents of the blood 
With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone ! 
I think, in truth, twere better to make moan, 
And so be done with it. This many a year, 
Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer, 
Pierced through with sorrow ! 



THE SISTERS TRAGEDY. 

Then the widowed one, 
With sorrowfulest eyes beneath the sun, 
Faltered, irresolute, and bending low 
Her head, half whispered, 

Dear, how could you know ? 
What masks are faces ! yours, unread by me 
These seven long summers ; mine, so placidly 
Shielding my woe ! No tremble of the lip, 
No cheek s quick pallor let our secret slip ! 
Mere players we, and she that played the queen, 
Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean ! 
How shall I say it, how find words to tell 
What thing it was for me made earth a hell 
That else had been my heaven ! Twould blanch your cheek 
Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak, 
Since like two souls at cornpt we seem to stand, 
Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand, 
But look not at me ! Noble twas and meet, 
To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet 
To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride 
And that white honor for which earls have died. 
You were not all unhappy, loving so ! 
I with a difference wore my weight of woe. 
My lord was he. It was my cruel lot, 
My hell, to love him for he loved me not ! 

Then came a silence. Suddenly like death 

The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath 

A flash of light whereby they both were slain, 

She that was loved and she that loved in vain ! 



183 




JERRY. 



PART FIBST (CONCLUDED). 




CHAPTEK XIV. 

" As to the assertion that no amount of evi 
dence could establish the supernatural, we ask 
in amazement, On what is the supernatural 
based ? Does it rest on anything higher than 
the idle habit of mind induced by the observa 
tion of constant recurrences V " 

HE fight with Paul 
was a great event 
in Jerry s life, and 
Joe chuckled over it 
with much satisfac- 
tion, being proud 
of Jerry s " sper- 
ret." 

" An the wuss 
youuns air, Jerry, 
wusser hisn s lickin air," he had 
said more than once ; but this triumph 
was soon overshadowed by an occur 
rence of solemn portent. 

It was going to be a bitter winter ; 
everybody said so, and Joe had stopped 
work some time before to make prep 
aration for it. Jerry worked with him 
heartily enough ; coining home from 
the beloved lessons an hour earlier that 
he might help Joe bring the wood up 
from the gorges, where the pines grew 
best ; helping him build a sheltered pen 
for the three pigs that were to be kept 
and killed as needed ; helping him make 
a bin to keep the meal dry, and a box 
in which to pack salt beef. 

Jerry rather liked it ; there was a 
sense of plenty and comfort about the 
preparations which he had never experi 
enced before. All winter there would 
be enough to eat, and enough to wear, 
and wood to warm them. All this his 
father could have done, the boy thought, 
but he never had, and the winters had 
been black times of terror to him and 
his mother. 

But he said nothing to Joe about this, 
drew no comparisons ; for already he 
was imbibing some idea of keeping faith 
since once the doctor had said to him 
"You should remember you are speak 



ing of your father " and the boy had 
felt his face grow very hot ; he did not 
realize why, but since then he had not 
talked about his home nor his old life. 
Indeed, he abhorred the thought of it, 
for gradually there was growing on him 
the knowledge of the fact that his mother 
had died for him. Sometimes he would 
sit up quite still in the night with his 
little bundle held close in his arms, and 
try not to long to kill his father, try not 
to curse him and the great brutal woman 
who was now his wife. For, living with 
the doctor day after day, he was gather 
ing to himself a more clear and distinct 
understanding of right and wrong, and 
of the vast difference existing between 
the doctor and the people about him ; 
he was making every effort to imitate 
and follow him in all things, and his love 
for this man was boundless. But grow 
ing up with this adoring love he bore 
for his hero, there was a deep grievance 
and bitterness ; it was the doctor s love 
for Paul that Jerry had learned to watch 
for and suffer from ; for Jerry hated 
Paul. The slow, cool scorn with which 
Paul looked at him the manner in 
which he stood aside to let Jerry pass, 
as if the danger of touching him was to 
be avoided the way in which he vacat 
ed the library whenever Jerry entered, 
was too much to be endured without 
breeding a hatred deep and lasting. But 
if Jerry had known it, Paul had also a 
great pain ; if only it would not be be 
neath him to whip this little cur this 
wretched little pauper who had dared to 
fight and overcome him ; and beyond 
was always the dreadful doubt " Did 
the doctor know ? " 

So the bitter feeling grew between the 
boys, and Jerry s wonder as to the con 
nection between Paul and the doctor 
became one of the chief problems of his 
life for he could not touch Paul if the 
doctor " sot much sto " by him. 

He would have liked to have asked the 
doctor about it, but the same feeling 
that now made him keep quiet about his 



JERRY. 



185 



own affairs made him hesitate about ask 
ing questions. So he only watched that 
he might learn with certainty what the 
feeling was between these two. And the 
watching made him heavy-hearted ; for 
there was something in each that he 
could not understand nor copy, and they 
could talk of things of which he knew 
nothing ; yet Paul was only a boy. 

But there was always a brisk change 
when Jerry went back to the little house 
under the rocks. Joe was always there 
before him now, working busily and 
whistling the one straight, endless tune 
they had in common. 

Each day the journeys for wood were 
made, until the piles grew so high that 
Jerry thought they would last forever. 
But Joe knew better, and worked day 
by day while Jerry was in the settlement, 
and after Jerry came home, far into the 
late evening. At last the stacks had 
grown high enough even for Joe, and as 
the covered pen was ready, Joe proposed 
that they should go for the pigs before 
another fall of snow. 

"It ll be a heavy one when it do come," 
he said, looking at the clouds that were 
gathering ; clouds of deathlike, ghastly 
white, " an the devil couldn t drive them 
pigs up these rocks then." 

So Jerry came home earlier than usual, 
and they set off. 

" Jim Martin lives nigh ole Durden s 
mine," Joe said, "an youuns kin jest 
tuck a leetle spy in the hole, Jerry." 

Jerry s eyes opened very wide. 

"I m feared, "he answered, forgetting 
in his excitement that the doctor had 
told him to say " afraid." 

" Most folks is," and Joe shook his 
head mysteriously, "but I Hows as it 
can t hurt youuns jest to peek in fur a 
minnit." 

" An the water ? " Jerry asked, in a low 
tone. 

"I How it s a-drappin yit," Joe 
answered, " an it ll keep on a-drappin 
tell the Jedgment day ; it soun s power 
ful creepy, it do." 

To see " ole Durden s mine ! " Jerry 
felt his hair rise up, and all his veins 
tingle ; to look in, and maybe to see the 
gold glittering on the walls and floor, as 
he thought it must to hear that water 
dropping all day and all night, never 
ceasing, never forming into a pool or 



stream that any human eye had ever seen. 
An indefinable trembling came over him 
as he tramped down the path behind Joe, 
and he longed for, yet feared, the termi 
nation of the afternoon. 

"Thar s Jim Martin s," and Joe 
pointed to where a thin curl of smoke 
floated up slowly from among the rocks. 

"Jim s house is piled thar plum 
aginst the rocks, it are, jest fur orl the 
woii liker dirt-dauber s hole ; but my 
Nancy Ann Howed she never wanted no 
rock wall to oum house." 

"I keep a-hearing something," Jerry 
interrupted, laying great stress on the 
final g, which he found much difficulty 
in pronouncing, " something a-roamigr." 

"It s a stream as comes down the 
mounting nigh the mine," Joe an 
swered, " an it falls over the rocks jest 
as purty ! " 

"A falls," Jerry suggested, feeling 
quite sure he had said the correct thing. 

"Falls," Joe repeated, "the doctor 
names it thet too," he went on, " so I 
llows as youuns is correc a falls ; an 
youuns kin see it from up thar, from a 
rock as is jest ezackly over the hole of 
Durden s mine," stepping a little aside 
from the path to where one rock rose 
higher than the rest. 

Jerry followed eagerly ; a short, sharp 
climb, then he heard a slow, astonished 
exclamation from Joe. 

" Great-day-in-the-mornin ! " 

The boy leaned forward ; and there, a 
little below the level of the peak on 
which they stood, lying on a thin, flat 
slab of rock that projected far out from 
the dizzy cliff, was the doctor. 

"Well, Joe," looking up to where 
they stood above him. 

" Evenin , doctor," Joe answered ; 
"weuns is agoin to Jim Martin s atter 
the hogs, an I llowed I d show Jerry 
the water." 

"And it is very beautiful," the doctor 
said, turning his eyes again on the 
sombre gloom of the scene below them. 

On all sides the grim, barren rocks 
darkening down into the deep gorge 
where the crowding pines dimmed the 
shadows to blackness ; and from the far 
cliff where the light lingered longest, 
down from rock to rock the silver water 
falling and crying aloud holding up 
"white, pleading hands" down into 



186 



JERRY. 



the black gorge and out to lose its life 
in the hot, dry plains. 

"I reckon it s sorry to come down," 
the child said, with a sigh ; and the 
doctor turned and looked at the wistful 
face lifted to the far heights. Had the 
boy read his thoughts? the thoughts 
that came to him like voices from his 
own life, as he lay there watching the 
water that forever was falling like one 
in a dream forever that weary cry ! 

"An Durden s mine is down thar," 
and Joe, holding by a broken rock, 
leaned over and pointed to where below 
them the shadow deepened to the sem 
blance of a black hole. His voice broke 
harshly on the silence, and the boy 
sighed once more, and looked into the 
eyes of the man below him. He could 
not tell what he saw there, but it was 
the same thing that made him sigh. 

" An the rock youuns is on, doctor, is 
mighty thin," Joe went on, as he stepped 
back to where Jerry stood. 

"It has held me many times," the 
doctor answered, slowly ; then they 
turned and left him. 

To Joe it was the place where the 
" water came down an looked rale 
purty ; " to Jerry it was a place that 
made him afraid made him feel as he 
had done when at last he had stood on 
the greatest height he could reach, and 
saw the sun setting across the plain ; a 
feeling that made him walk in silence 
after Joe, and scarcely heed the talk of 
Durden s mine. Yes, he would go and 
look, what matter if he were dragged in 
to perish there ; it would be better than 
this feeling he could not understand. 
The doctor understood, for the doctor 
looked into his eyes sometimes, and even 
in his blind ignorance Jerry could see 
and know the unuttered longing. 

" He s lonesome, too," he whispered 
to himself, and followed silently down 
to where the black hole yawned. 

Darker and rougher the gorge grew 
the path narrowed to the merest 
thread of a track then there came a 
level space covered with piles of debris 
from the mine, and through the broad 
cutting in the pines that once had been 
the road could be seen the village of 
Durden s, that had grown from the few 
miners huts that at first had congregat 
ed around " Durden s find ; " and near 



by, the stream that fell so far, fretted 
and fumed in the artificial channel which 
the old miners had cut for it. 

" They says thet the water runned 
right in har," Joe explained, as they 
stood in front of the mine, " an ole 
Durden got the fust gole outer the 
water ; atter thet he foun it in the 
rock, he did, an he jest sot to work an 
dug a ditch over yon for the water, an 
dug in the cave fur the gole." 

Then he led the boy nearer and nearer, 
picking his way carefully over the rocks 
and rotting logs that were strewn about 
the opening of the deserted mine, down 
into a sort of basin, where they paused 
and looked up to the slab far above them 
on which the doctor lay ; and it looked 
so high and thin, such a precarious rest 
ing place ! 

A few steps further and the blackness 
of darkness gathered about them. 

" Listen ! " Joe whispered, pausing. 

There was the sharp rattle of the stone 
they had dislodged that rolled some 
where into the darkness ; then through 
the silence came the drip of far-off water 
slow heavy, regular, save that now 
and then there came a double sound as 
though too much had gathered for one 
drop a quick, irregular sound like the 
catch in a sob or a sigh. 

The boy stood very still ; the silence 
and the darkness seemed to grow about 
him, and the sound of the dropping 
water seemed to rise and swell, then to 
fade and die like some creature crying ! 
He was awe-stricken he was afraid to 
stir even to raise his hand to ,touch 
Joe who stood so near ! Like one in a 
nightmare who could not move nor cry ! 

Great drops of sweat gathered on his 
temples he trembled like a leaf in the 
wind ; was there anything back there in 
the darkness ? anything coming toward 
him anything ? that drawn, white face 
he had seen in the coffin ! The dead 
eyes were open and staring at him 
something touched him ! 

A wild cry broke from his lips, and 
turning, he fled up the rugged opening 
falling, scrambling, breathless, until 
he lay sobbing under the ghastly white 
light from the snow-clouds ; hiding his 
eyes and crying with sharp, quick gasps. 

" Great-day-in-the-mornin ! " and Joe 
stood over the trembling child in much 



JERRY. 



187 



wonder ; " I jest teched youuns, an sich- 
er holler I never hearn what ails you 
uns, anyhow ? " trying to raise the boy, 
" thar warn t nothin to skeer youuns." 

"I seen him I seen him!" Jerry 
answered between his sobs " I seen 
Lije Milton ! " 

Joe sat down on a rock, overcome. 

" Lije Milton ? " he repeated, slowly 
"an Lije never b lieved as he d git 
up agin ! " 

No doubts of the fact crossed his 
mind ; no question as to how or why ; 
that Jerry had seen Lije Milton was a 
simple fact which proved to his mind 
that the dead hero did not sleep in 
peace and quiet. 

Gradually the sobs died away, and 
Jerry lifted himself as one exhausted. 

" Less us go," he said ; " less git 
away from this place," and Joe followed 
obediently. 

Jerry, somehow, was taking rank 
above him, and this last revelation raised 
him into something of a hero. 

All the slow way home they were 
silent, except for the orders and cries to 
the hogs that were inclined to wander 
in their going. Neither at supper was 
there any conversation, and it was not 
until Joe had smoked one pipe, and had 
fairly started on another, that he broke 
the silence. 

" It were surely cur us, Jerry," he be 
gan, gravely, "thet I ve been agoin 
thar a heaper times, an never sawn ner 
hearn nothin ceppen the water a-drap- 
pin naryer thing ceppen thet, an thar s 
sumpen in it sure jest sure," looking 
solemnly at his companion, who, in a 
chair opposite, gazed steadily into the 
fire ; thar s sumpen in it," he repeat 
ed, "fur it stan s to reason that Lije 
wouldn t hev come fur nothin ; thar s 
somethin onlucky bout thet place fur 
youuns, Jerry, thet s what it means," de 
cisively, " an youuns hed jest better 
keep clar of thet hole." 

"I will," Jerry answered, drawing his 
sleeve across his nose, " I ll never go 
nighst it agin, you bet I mean again," 
he corrected himself. 

" Agin or again," Joe repeated, "don t 
make no diffrunce to me ; I ain t per- 
tickler bout sich leetle trash as thet, 
but don t youuns go anigh Durden s ; 
mebbe thar s a heaper gole thar, but it 



ain t fur youuns," pushing the fire into 
a brighter blaze, " an I feels a kinder 
all-overish when I members how youuns 
screeched when I jest barly teched 
youuns ; sposen youuns gits yer leetle 
book an read a spell," throwing another 
log on the mass of coals, "it ll be sorter 
cheerfuller to read bout the leetle boy 
as got the fly in hisn s eyes," then more 
slowly, " but it beats me how he done 
it." 

" The doctor said it was the words he 
wanted to lam me," Jerry answered, as 
he took his book down from a shelf, "I 
spec it ain t it is not for rayly true." 
Joe s English was demoralizing, and 
Jerry puzzled sorely over his words, 
speaking slowly and correcting himself 
when he remembered. And Joe was 
very lenient, treating these efforts as 
signs of the weakness of Jerry s intel 
lect. 

"Jest please yourself bout words, 
Jerry," he said, kindly ; "I don t rayly 
hev no f eelin agin one word or ernether ; 
it s orl one to me, jest so I kin on erstan 
youuns ; now jest pole erlong but thet 
boy an hisn s fly." 

So Jerry found the place and read 
slowly and earnestly, holding the book 
to catch the firelight. And Joe listened 
with much satisfaction, a look of pride 
growing in his eyes as he watched the 
child ; and when the page was turned 
Jerry paused, as he always did, to show 
Joe the picture. 

"It s jest as naytral," bending his 
gray head over the poor woodcut, "thar s 
the leetle boy, an thar s hisn s fly 
a rale big un an it s flewed away, it 
hes." 

" The fly is out of my eye, " Jerry 
read in a sort of recitative. 

"It jest is," Joe commented, "an 
thet s what I said, it flewed away." 

It was more cheerful, the reading, 
and their spirits rose in a measure ; but 
when bed-time came, Jerry, by Joe s ad 
vice, brought his blankets and spread 
them close by Joe s bed ; and once or 
twice in the night Joe got up to put 
more wood on the fire, and waked the 
boy to tell him to " quit a-cryin so pit- 
terful." 

The darkness and the sobs together 
were more than Joe could bear, and the 
next morning it was determined that 



188 



JERRY. 



Jerry should ask the doctor about his 
vision in the mine. 

Jerry s heart was very heavy as he 
trudged away to the doctor s, for with 
the feeling that his mother was always 
near him the feeling that had given 
him so much comfort there was min 
gling now the mystery of the dead who 
walked the earth because they were not 
easy in their graves. Joe believed it 
firmly ; and yesterday, had he not seen 
Lije Milton with his own eyes ? And 
was his mother wandering like this ? 

She had died for him. 

"If she had let Dad bust my head 
agin the chimbly her d a-been a-livin 
right no," and he drove his hands deeper 
into the cavernous pockets of his coat, 
Joe s coat, that Paid had laughed at. His 
heart was heavy, yet with it there was 
a feeling of importance that sustained 
him ; Lije Milton had come to warn 
him ! And he held himself a little more 
erect. 

The fire burned brightly in the study, 
and the doctor was there when Jerry en 
tered. 

" Well, Jerry," he said, then returned 
to the book he was reading, so that the 
questions which hung on Jerry s tongue 
had to be put away until the lessons, 
which were done mechanically that day, 
were over. 

"We shall have some heavy snows," 
the doctor said when they had finished, 
" and you may not be able to come every 
day, Jerry, so I have arranged copies 
and lessons which you can do at home 
on the days when the weather is too 
bad." 

"Yes, sir, and I m very" pausing, 
doubtfully " much obliged to you," the 
doctor suggested, gravely. 

" Much obliged to you," Jerry repeat 
ed, then added quickly, " I rayly rayly 
are ! " as if the copied words did not 
satisfy him, nor express his gratitude. 

The doctor smiled, then asked, kindly : 

"Did you get your hogs home safely ? " 

" Yes, sir ; and, doctor," feeling that 
the time for his revelation had come, "I 
went into Durden s mine," his eyes 
growing Avide as he spoke. 

" Well." 

The boy paused ; with the doctor lis 
tening, the story seemed, somehow, to 
lose all importance. 



"It is the truth, doctor," then in the 
excitement that came over him, he re 
turned to his own special English : 
"Yes, sir, sure as I stan afore you, I 
sawn Lije Milton I did, an Joe Hows 
as he come to tell me that the gole in 
Durden s mine ain t fur me." 

" Did you expect to buy Durden s 
mine ? " the doctor asked, quietly. 

Jerry shook his head. 

" No, sir." 

" Then why should Lije Milton come 
back to tell you that you must not have 
it?" 

Jerry looked doubtful. 

" Joe said so." 

" Well, Joe is mistaken ; nobody can 
work Durden s mine unless they first buy 
it, and it will take a great deal of money 
to do that." 

"Is Durden s mine full of gole ? " the 
boy asked. 

"I do not know," -the doctor answered, 
"I have never examined it, but they say 
the new mine is much better." 

"An* I never sa\vn Lije ? " 

" I do not think you did, Jerry," and 
the doctor smiled kindly on him. 

" Well, farwell," looking up longingly 
into the face above him, " mebbe I can t 
git back to-morrow." 

" Good-by, Jerry," holding out his 
hand. 

The boy took it reverently, and looked 
at it almost adoringly ; then for an in 
stant his hold on it tightened and he 
raised his eyes 

"You goes to thet rock a-heaper 
times ? " he asked. 

" The rock over Durden s ? " with some 
curiosity in his tone. 

"Yes, sir." 

" Very nearly every day," waiting for 
what the child would say next. 

There was a pause ; then, still holding 
the doctor s hand, Jerry drew a little 
nearer. 

"Joe says it s awful thin," pleadingly, 
"an you ll fall, please, doctor ! M 

The doctor shook his head. 

" You and Joe need not be anxious," 
he said, "that rock will outlast me." 

Jerry turned to the door. 

" Farwell," he repeated, " but I m 
afraid fur you ; " then the door was shut, 
and the sound of his footsteps died away 
before the doctor moved. 



JERRY. 



189 



It bad been so long since anyone had 
cared since wistful eyes had watched 
for good or ill to him so long ! 

Far back in the years there had been 
eyes whose faithfulness and love had 
never faltered ; eyes that looked at him 
now from out the shadows when the 
day darkened from out the fire from 
out his books ! Eyes he had turned 
away from eyes 

"that looked into his eyes with smile 
That said be strong-, yet covered anxious 
tears the while ! " 

So long ! And now these humble eyes 
looked up and pleaded for his safety 
watched lest ill should come to him 
loved him believed in him. 

Poor little waif ; poor little ignorant 
heart still half asleep ; was it kind to 
shake it free of dreams to make it open 
its eyes to the broad, blinding light of 
knowledge the merciless light that 
spared nothing? 

The fresh shadowy dawn wherein he 
now lived, was it not better ? 



CHAPTER XV. 

" Like dry and flimsy autumn leaves that blow 

From all far distances, until by chance 

They meet and rest within some sheltered 

spot ; 

So lives oft come together, and so rest, 
Until some wilder wind sends them apart 
To longer wanderings on the lonely road. " 

THE day Jerry came home from the 
doctor s with his bundle of books and 
copies was the last of the open weather, 
and the winter closed in with cruel 
coldness. 

For days the snow fell ; the world lay 
motionless ; no sound of wind, no move 
ment, a death-like stillness while the 
snow-banks grew higher and higher 
the pine-branches drooped and cracked 
sharply under the growing weight and 
in the long, bitter nights the beams and 
logs of the house groaned and strained 
shuddering as with a sudden blow 
from an unseen hand. 

The wild creatures roamed and cried 
through the dark hours, coming nearer 
to man, growing fiercer and bolder in 
their hungry need. Each day as the 
door was opened, a path had to be 



cleared through the snow before Joe 
could do anything toward the day s 
work. Then in the long hours when 
Joe was gone, Jerry lived a lonely life 
in the dark house with window and door 
barred, and only the fire and Pete for 
light and company. Joe taught him 
how to load and use the rifle, and 
charged him not to hesitate to fire on 
man or beast. 

He fed the hogs with the rifle close at 
hand, and watched with a nervous fas 
cination the great tracks that day by day 
came about the house ; and sometimes 
he heard the creeping footsteps and 
wild cries as he sat spelling over his les 
sons by the firelight. 

A dreary life, until one day Joe 
brought home a window-frame fitted 
with glass, and screwed it in the win 
dow. 

" Youuns kin see now, Jerry," he 
said, " an kin read youuns leetle books," 
and the boy looked up very thankfully. 

After that he worked diligently, send 
ing his papers to the doctor when Joe 
happened to pass that way, and in return 
receiving words of commendation and 
freshly arranged work. And in the long 
evenings he explained to his friend the 
processes by which he worked, and 
showed him all his papers, until over 
Joe s manner there came a change. He 
treated the boy so tenderly, listened to 
his words and explanations so proudly, 
and when Jerry read aloud sat silent 
and admiring. Out among his friends 
he spoke of Jerry as " my boy," and 
made allusions to the future when Jerry 
should stand with the best. 

He bought the boy a cot toiling up 
the slippery trail with it on his back 
and Jerry s eyes opened wide with de 
light and wonder. Then he brought a 
new book from the doctor, and made a 
little shelf for Jerry to keep his books 
and papers on. And Jerry, grown white 
and a little thin from his winter s cap 
tivity, looked gravely out of the window, 
and wondered what all this attention 
from Joe meant. 

He was growing very silent as the 
days went by, and was learning to brood 
in the enforced loneliness of his life. 

From Joe he had heard all that he 
knew of Paul and his connection with 
the doctor ; that Paul was the son of a 



190 



JERRY. 



friend who in dying had given him to 
the doctor, though some people thought 
that Paul was enough like the doctor to 
be his own ; that Paul was very rich, 
and one day would own most of the mine 
in Eureka ; and the reason Jerry had 
seen so little of him during his earlier 
visits to the doctor was that Paul was 
daily in Eureka learning from the engi 
neer all about the mine and mining. 

"He ll hev a heaper gole, sure," Joe 
had said, thoughtfully ; " but I Hows 
thet thar s some as ll hev as much." 
And Jerry had listened with a dull pain 
at his heart. 

The doctor loved Paul the doctor 
worked for Paul s interests ; and Paul, a 
rich man, would pass Jerry by like the 
dust in the road. 

It was a bitter thought to Jerry. 

It was not often during the long 
winter that the boy could go to the 
doctor; but each time he came home 
with a clearer and more mortifying 
knowledge of his own deficiencies, and 
of the distance that lay between even 
Paul and himself while the doctor 
seemed hopelessly far. But with this 
knowledge there came ever a firmer de 
termination to overcome all. 

He worked eagerly carefully un 
ceasingly ; doing his sums, writing his 
copies over and over, and reading his 
few books until he knew them very thor 
oughly. He saved and spelled out every 
scrap of newspaper that came into his 
hands, storing in his mind a strange 
medley of words and ideas ; while 
through and over all was the memory of 
the doctor s words that had taken root 
and were bearing fruit in the boy s ways 
and tones the suggestion that some 
day Jerry could be as the doctor was. 
He thought of it by day and dreamed of 
it by night, building wonderful castles 
in the air. He would be a gentleman 
some day, and have books all around his 
room ; he would have clothes such as 
Paul had, and walk and talk as Paul 
did only he would be stronger, and 
love his lessons, which Paul did not. 
But one thing hurt him one thing was 
a great disappointment to him he 
could never touch Paul again, because 
Paul belonged to the doctor. And not 
only did Paul possess the doctor s love, 
but was protected by it from any re 



venge in Jerry s power. He could never 
touch Paul again, even though he had a 
feeling that Paul did not love the doc 
tor had not Paul called the doctor a 
" meat-axe ? " 

"But I whipped him for that," the 
boy would say to himself, and feel 
startled at the sound of his own voice 
coming back to him from the empty 
room. Each day he tried to read in the 
Bible the doctor had given him, but 
could make very little of it as yet ; the 
words were strange and different from 
the words in his books, and he was often 
at a loss to understand them. But here 
Joe occasionally was able to give him 
unexpected help ; telling him roughly 
and vaguely some of the stories brought 
to his mind by the names Jerry spelled 
out. 

"Adam he were the fust man as ever 
growed," he said, " an Eve were the fust 
woman, an she were made outer Adam s 
bones, she were ; an youuns kin read 
an see thet s the livin truth ; an the 
critters an the yarbs were made fust to 
gie Adam sumpen to eat." 

"But the Golding Gates, " Jerry 
asked, " it don t tell about that." 

Joe shook his head doubtfully. 

"I don t ezackly onderstan bout 
thet," he said, "but I allers hearn 
thet the Bible telled all about it ; I 
knowed a preacher onest as telled me a 
heaper tales, an he llowed thet they 
corned from the Bible ; an the doctor 
he tole my leetle Nan bout the good 
place, an he read it out the book thet 
thar wornt no mo sufferin thar, ner no 
mo cryin . Lord ! I ll never forgit how 
he sot thar an read the book tell I d jest 
as lieve a-died a-longer Nancy-Ann," 
looking meditatively into the fire. 

And Jerry, never thinking of turning 
to any but the first part of the book, 
plodded on as faithfully, as trustfully as 
he had journeyed toward the setting sun, 
because his mother had pointed there 
for the "Golden Gates ; " he worked his 
way through verse after verse, with full 
intention of reading the whole book be 
cause the doctor had given it to him as 
a guide to his mother. 

And gazing into the fire, or out of the 
window, he would dream and wonder 
without ceasing longing for the snow 
to be over and the spring to come. He 



JERRY. 



191 



grew to love old Pete, and was sorry 
when the hogs were killed one after an 
other, even though they lived like 
princes in consequence of it, having 
plenty of meat, and plenty of grease for 
their bread. 

Jerry had never lived so well in his 
life, and he appreciated all his comforts, 
but not as he would have done a year 
ago ; for he wanted now something 
more than food and clothes. In that 
little time he had been educated up to 
unappeasable wants, and the beautiful, 
happy time when he could be satisfied 
was forever past. 

The time when with childish eyes we 
look no further than from hour to hour ; 
touching mysteries and wonders as the 
butterflies touch the flowers ; glad for 
the sunshine ; hearing music in the rain ; 
sleeping, and dreaming golden dreams 
through the dark hours, until Want 
comes to us held in the arms of Knowl 
edge want that creeps into our hearts 
and voices looks longingly from our 
eyes walks with us all our days, until 
death stills our longing with a friendly 
hand upon our hearts. 

And Joe watched and wondered ; was 
it " books an larnin " made the boy so 
quiet ; made him grow so tall, and slim, 
and white ; and stand looking so long 
and so silently out of the window ? 

The boy was changing in every way, 
and between the two a different relation 
ship was being formed. Jerry had risen 
to a great height in Joe s estimation, 
and gradually all his pride and love had 
centred on the boy. "My boy," he 
called him, and had a growing ambition 
concerning him. He had not for one 
moment forgotten the fight between 
Jerry and Paul, and each visit he paid 
to the doctor, in carrying back Jerry s 
papers, he would look at Paul and smile 
in a way to rouse all Paul s ire. 

" Jerry s rale well," he would say, " an 
gittin rale strong." 

And Paul would try to answer uncon 
cernedly, but once or twice he found the 
doctor s eyes fixed on him with a criti 
cising look in them that was anything 
but calming ; and the boy took Joe into 
his list of hates. 



"I cannot see what you find to in 
terest you in that stupid man and boy," 
he said to the doctor one day. 

"Neither of them are s*tupid," the 
doctor answered, not lifting his eyes 
from his book ; " and the boy is above 
the average in intellect, he is learning 
rapidly." 

" And what good will his learning do 
him ? " scornfully. 

"The same good your learning will 
do you, possibly more." 

" More good ! " haughtily. " I have 
a name and a fortune to support." 

" And Jerry has both to make," then 
the doctor returned to his book. 

Paul did not feel that he could say 
anything more just then ; but the con 
versation rankled in his mind. 

That Jerry should be put on an equal 
ity with him was an insult hard to bear 
but that Jerry should dare to found a 
name and fortune was a still more bitter 
thought. He would brood and brood 
over the thought sometimes ending 
with an oath, sometimes with a laugh ; 
Jerry should work in his mine yet ! 

But he told the doctor none of this. 

So the winter had its day ; a long, 
merciless day that seemed to have no end. 

And many folded tired hands for aye 
and many would have found their 
graves a warm refuge. Hard and ear 
nestly the doctor worked among the 
hovels in Durden s and Eureka ; helping 
in money, and words, and skill. No 
weather stopped him, no hardship 
seemed to turn him aside ; and often 
Joe would come home and tell many 
things he had heard of the doctor s de 
votion to the people a devotion he 
could not understand. And Jerry mind 
ing the house and the hogs up on the 
mountain, and Paul cursing his loneli 
ness down on the plain both wondered 
and tried to find some reason for this 
strange and uncalled-for sacrifice of time, 
and comfort, and money ; but it was a 
riddle neither of them could read as yet. 

Only " eyes that have wept see clear " 
see clear and far into the lives, and 
hopes, and sufferings of their fellows 
only eyes that have wept have this second 
sight. 



192 



JERRY. 



PAKT SECOND. 



CHAPTEE I. 



" There is no caste in blood, 
Which runneth of one hue, nor caste in tears, 
Which trickled salt with all." 

A KUMOR had come to Eureka, a 
rumor that Eureka was to have a rail 
way, and the town was wild with excite 
ment. 

So many years had rolled by without 
one ripple to mark their going, that this 
sudden waking up seemed to bewilder 
the people. So many quiet years where 
in Jerry up on the mountain-side, and 
Paul in the valley, had grown and de 
veloped "each after his kind." Paul, 
absorbed in himself Jerry, clinging 
close to the aim set before him in his 
childhood, absorbed in dreams grown 
out of his study of his idealized master, 
the doctor. Through all these years he 
had followed without question in any 
direction the doctor had indicated ; had 
plodded eagerly through anything the 
doctor would teach him. But though a 
dreamer, his education had opened his 
eyes to many things that he would glad 
ly have ignored. He now recognized 
his own class very distinctly ; he realized 
the rank from which he had sprung, and 
looking on them he saw the haggard, 
stolid drudges the weary, dirty, igno 
rant women and his mother had been 
such as these ? 

He hated his class because they were 
so low, and he hated himself for the 
feeling ; he hated social grades and the 
"accident of birth," and history was to 
him a black record of injustice, and suf 
fering, and wrong ; a narration of how 
the strong crowded down the weak, and 
that only because they were weak. 

And at last his dreams took shape, 
and to himself he seemed to come down 
out of the clouds. The doctor s life- 
work had been to raise humanity his 
own life-work should be to raise his 
class. 

Wrong must be righted ; and in this 
wide western land, where all had equal 
chances, all should $ise. 

The Master of Mankind had come 
down to earth to lift up all humanity 
aye and had been murdered by a mob ! 



Even so ; but His teachings had lived, 
and through eighteen hundred years 
had worked and leavened the world ; 
and now the time had come for reform ! 

And what higher task could a man 
set for himself ? Surely he would be a 
reformer. 

But with the patronizing patience of 
youth he determined to begin humbly ; 
he would show that he was not a wild 
theorizer ; he would be practical at the 
start, and possible all through. And he 
asked the doctor s advice about opening 
a free school in Durden s, for he had 
decided that education must be the first 
step in reform. 

But the doctor shook his head. 

"Make them pay you, Jerry," he said, 
" if it is only ten cents a month ; putting 
a money value on it is the only way to 
make them appreciate it." 

" But many of them are too poor to 
pay," the young man answered slowly. 

"None are too poor to buy tobacco 
and whiskey," quietly ; " besides, you are 
old enough now to think of making your 
own living." 

Jerry looked up quickly with the 
blood rising slowly in his face, as the 
doctor went on : 

" Joe is old now, and he has done a 
great deal for you." 

"I could not help it," Jerry answered 
eagerly, "I was too young to know, 
when he first took me in, and since then 
he has never allowed me to work ; my 
education has been his pride." 

" Very true, and it all has been quite 
right until now ; but now," and as of 
old the doctor tramped up and down 
the room with his spurs rattling at his 
heels, " now it will be good for you to 
work ; you will be helped mentally and 
morally by working for yourself. I 
think the school is a good plan ; but I 
advise you to take the school already 
established in Eureka, and make reason 
able charges ; the schoolmaster is old 
now, and never has been of any prac 
tical value." 

" And what will he have to live on 
without his school ? " Jerry asked. 

" He .has land ; land that will bring 
him in a little fortune before long," 



JERRY. 



193 



thoughtfully; "besides he has money 
put away ; I will speak to him if you 
like, so that you can secure the school- 
house and his influence." 

Jerry looked doubtful ; his intentions 
about the great work he had chosen 
had been so different. He had pictured 
to himself a beginning where all would 
be gratitude and good feeling ; where 
he would tell the people what he pur 
posed doing for them, and begin by be 
ing a hero ! 

Now, the opening scene was all 
changed ; and he put in a position to 
sue for patronage. 

He had never spoken to the doctor of 
this great purpose, and now, somehow, 
the disclosure seemed impossible, for 
there was no escape from the doctor s 
reasoning ; it was undeniably right that 
he should support himself ; a thing that 
had not occurred to himself in his 
dreams. 

And yet, how could he say to the peo 
ple " I am doing this entirely for your 
good but you must pay me for it ? " 
How could a man professing to work on 
a high moral plane, push cash pay 
ments ! 

And he answered slowly : 

"Let me think of it, doctor?" 

" Of course." 

And Jerry walked home slowly. 

This conversation had taken place a 
year before the railway excitement had 
touched the little towns of Durden s 
and Eureka, and for that length of time 
Jerry had been schoolmaster in Eureka 
after the doctor s plan. 

It had made Joe very proud, and it 
was music in his ears when he heard 
the people say " Mr. "Wilkerson ; " and 
when he saw Jerry making out his 
monthly bills, or signing receipts as 
" J. P. Wilkerson," his heart would 
throb with delight. But the height of 
his joy was reached when the Eureka 
Star published a flourishing notice of 
the " talented young schoolmaster, Pro 
fessor Jeremiah P. Wilkerson " ! 

Fully realizing the absurdity of the 
position, the amusement of the doctor, 
and the sneers of Paul, Jerry found 
this notice hard to bear ; but his cup 
seemed to overflow when he found that 
in his pride Joe had taken the notice to 
Paul as a triumph for Jerry ! 
VOL. VIIL 19 



No scoffing remarks from Paul no 
labored explanation even, would have 
made the old man understand the amus 
ing side of the notice or the little worth 
of it ; and though feeling just as Jerry 
knew he would feel, the doctor said 
such kind things to Joe that he returned 
home greatly elated, and with two pins 
fixed the bit of newspaper to the wall 
where he could see it always without any 
trouble. 

But the year had seemed a lifetime to 
Jerry. He had had to unlearn so much 
to bear so much to be disappointed 
in so much ; for outside of books he 
had no knowledge. 

His whole life, since Joe had taken 
him in, had been spent between the 
little house under the cliffs and the 
quiet of the doctor s study ; and this 
year of practical work among the people 
had been a revelation to him. 

Among the delusions which had been 
dispelled was the one that Joe worked 
in Eureka. Not that Joe had ever said 
that he worked in Eureka, but somehow 
the belief had grown up with Jerry, 
until now he discovered that a mistake 
had been made somewhere. To his as 
tonishment he found that few people in 
Eureka knew Joe Gilliam that fewer 
still knew where he worked, and no one 
seemed to have asked what his work 
was. 

All this came to Jerry by accident, 
for it did not occur to him to ask any 
questions about Joe ; but when later on 
he found that even in Durden s every 
body believed that Joe worked in Eu 
reka, he felt as if walking in a mist full 
of strange surmises concerning the old 
man, and in his musing his thoughts 
took curious shapes ; for why should 
there be any mystery? Back through 
all the years his thoughts had gone and 
had found many things that could not 
be accounted for. 

Why had the house been so carefully 
guarded ? What was there in it to 
tempt a thief ? And working nowhere 
that Jerry could hear of, how did Joe 
make his money ? For Joe surely had 
money. But even this was a revelation 
to Jerry ; for until he had gone to Eu 
reka and had seen the way in which 
Joe s class lived, it had never occurred 
to him to question Joe s mode of life. 



194 



JERRY. 



It had been so different from the doc 
tor s, where Jerry often lunched or 
dined, that it had seemed to him coarse 
and rough ; but one insight into a 
Eureka house, and his eyes were instant 
ly opened to the fact of Joe s superior 
mode of life ; and at once he faced the 
mystery of the source of Joe s money. 

So through these puzzles that were 
almost troubles, and many others, the 
year had waxed and waned and worn 
away, as years will do if only one is pa 
tient enough. And Jerry had rearranged 
all his plans and ideas ; had patiently 
readjusted all his theories as to pov 
erty and want, placing them on a new 
basis that he deemed firm and practi 
cal, and that he was sure would stand 
all tests. 

But suddenly, like the swift, unac 
countable changes in a dream, the great 
est excitement ever known in that re 
gion had laid hold on Durden s and 
Eureka ; the deepest and wildest excite 
ment that could touch any small, unim 
portant place a railway was coming ! 
As surely as the sun shone and the wind 
blew, a railway was coming, and hun 
dreds of people with it. Eureka was to 
be made a great city ; the value of land 
was to reach an unheard-of figure, and 
all the inhabitants would bloom into 
millionaires ! 

How the report had come, or whence 
it had come, no one knew ; but it was 
there among them like the fire on the 
prairies. Nothing could quench the talk 
it roused, nor the hopes that flared and 
flamed in every direction. 

Money was coming to all without one 
stroke of work being done. Fortune 
was walking calmly across the hot, dry 
plains, across mountains and rivers, 
steadily on to the town of Eureka, her 
chosen, favorite child. 

The days and the years had passed 
very quietly until the talk of a railway 
had waked up the community, and in 
toxicated it with the thought of wealth. 
The people gathered on the corners with 
an eager, hungry look growing on their 
usually stolid faces ^ stopped each other 
on the street to discuss this all-absorb 
ing possibility ; wild with delight ; 
shouting and drinking ; betting their 
all as to where the railway would enter 
the town, what land would be the most 



valuable, and who had the best chances 
for the future. 

It seemed to ring all the changes on 
the different characters ; the parsimoni 
ous became absolutely stingy, holding 
their money with an eager grasp as the 
possibility of getting more seemed to 
come nearer to them ; the avaricious 
became greedy for it ; the reckless threw 
it away more wildly. The very children 
and women caught the infection, fight 
ing among themselves, and drawing 
their husbands and sons into the horrid 
drunken frays that seemed to occur in 
every house and shop. 

"I never hearn the like," and Joe 
paused in his eating and put down his 
knife and fork, "Eureky is jest a-bilin 
over." 

" It will be a great thing for Eureka," 
Jerry answered, then went on more 
slowly, as if trying to understand his 
own words, " and people talk of buying 
the land in every direction." 

"What fur?" 

" To make money," and Jerry s voice 
and expression were very grave. 

Joe looked anxiously into the young 
face opposite him. 

" Does youuns want some ? " he said 
doubtfully. Jerry looked up quickly. 

" Do I want land ? " he asked ; " thank 
you, Joe, I have no need for land, and I 
think it a wrong thing to speculate in." 

Joe took up his knife and fork to go 
on with his supper, while a puzzled look 
came over his face. With each year 
that had passed Jerry had become a 
greater mystery to him, until now he 
had no real hope of ever understanding 
him again. " His boy " had developed 
entirely out of his reach and knowledge, 
and Joe could only admire. 

But this last enunciation was to Joe 
the strangest of all Jerry s sayings 
that to speculate in land was a sin. Was 
this a remnant of Jerry s youthful weak- 
mindedness that education had failed 
to correct? And from this time Joe 
watched Jerry with careful curiosity 
watched while Jerry strove in vain to 
right himself and hold his place amid all 
this wild excitement. 

It seemed marvellous to Jerry how in 
the twinkling of an eye all about him 
was changed, and he had to stand and 
see not only his dreams and his the- 



JERRY. 



195 



ories swept away, but the long year s 
hard work annihilated, while this intox 
icating greed for gain absorbed the 
people in its whirling vortex. 

Jerry had read a great deal about 
money and money s power ; had thought 
that he had some knowledge on the sub 
ject, and so thinking had built for him 
self a bulwark of calm indifference to 
this thing that so swayed the world ; 
indeed, he had determined to live entire 
ly above it. 

But now, as he watched, he began 
dimly to realize that the cumulative, 
crushing, almost crazing influence of 
money w r as an awful thing a thing to 
be afraid of. He looked and listened, 
appalled and astonished, and his hopes 
for his class seemed futile. How use 
less to try to make anything of these 
creatures, so far down in the scale of 
humanity ; so hungry for this power 
that was in itself so unworthy, and of 
which they could make only the lowest 
uses ! How he despised them, and how 
he hated the knowledge that he had been 
born one of them ! 

Nor had he any opportunity to take 
counsel and comfort from the doctor, 
for his time was fully occupied by the 
school, and by the long conversations he 
was now called upon to hold with his 
patrons, the parents of his scholars. 

Their confidence in Jerry first arose 
from his having been called " Professor" 
by the Star, and now they thought they 
could get no better views than his as to 
the land speculators w r ho were already 
creeping into the tow T ns. So they asked, 
and Jerry answered unhesitatingly 
against these strangers, and tried to 
show the people the dark sin that was 
hidden at the core of the fair-seeming 
schemes these land-speculators set forth 
to tempt them. 

To speculate in land w r as a crime, he 
told them, and the Government was re 
sponsible for it ; the Government should 
hold all land and rent it ; should not 
throw out God s gifts, which should be 
dispensed fairly, to be scrambled for by 
the crowd. Of course the weak would 
go to the wall the weak who had 
every right to life save the strength to 
hold it. 

In answer, the plausible first specula 
tors insisted that the land, having been 



thrown out for a general scramble, would 
all be grasped by "sharpers, "unless they, 
with command of ready money, should 
be allowed to buy it, in order to hold it 
for the poor people who would come with 
the railway ; this was all they wanted 
to do, and would promise to sell it 
fairly, with only enough margin allowed 
to pay themselves for their trouble and 
expense. 

Their trouble ! 

And Jerry enlarged on this phase of 
the question with a sarcastic strength 
that won him scholar after scholar, and 
made the people hold their land against 
all temptations. 

He was earnestly true in his opinions, 
and put them forth with the strength 
that truth begets. He saw many visions 
of the multitudes that w r ere to come ; vi 
sions of poor people seeking new homes 
and new openings in which to begin new 
lives. 

They had always lived up five pairs 
of stairs, he thought, with only enough 
land at the base to bear the weight of 
the five stories ; but was this all the 
land the livers in the tenements were 
entitled to ? Scarcely enough land to 
bury them in, unless they were buried 
five layers deep ! packed away like sar 
dines in a box ? 

Their lives spent in horrible want and 
misery ; with no right to God s sweet 
air and sunshine that are so freely given. 
Looking out with hungry, hollow eyes ; 
hunting in noisome garbage piles and 
gutters for dirty refuse. Naked skulk 
ing starving until almost they gnawed 
their useless hands that could find no 
work ; while the broad, breezy fields 
were tilled by steam. 

It was surely a black sin. 

And in the depths of the fire Jerry 
saw visions of model farms spreading 
far across the plains ; fair homes where 
the scum from all the cities from all the 
world, would settle and become honest 
citizens. 

All they needed was room for expan 
sion ; room to be thrifty, and moral, and 
religious ; room to breathe in, and look 
ing up to realize their God realize Him 
not as a careless " First Cause," who let 
the creatures of his hand multiply until 
they overflowed his world and crushed 
and crowded each other down to death 



196 



JERRY. 



and hell ! Not so, but as the merciful 
Father who made room enough for all, 
and did not send disease and misery as 
the cures for the mistake of over-popu 
lation ! 

Jerry s heart was on fire with the time- 
old wrongs of humanity, and his tongue 
was ready. 

Shortly the Star caught up his views 
and polysyllabled them until they were 
scarcely to be recognized ; but Joe s 
heart swelled with pride. 

" It were rayly liker preacher," he said 
over and over to himself, and listened 
eagerly to all that reached him about 
Jerry ; and in himself he began to real 
ize a most notable character ; one who 
had rescued from poverty and obscurity 
a great light ! 

Jerry was the " coming man " a man 
bound to rise ; a man with all the glory 
of no ancestry of ignorance and a log- 
cabin about his early years. 

And Joe gathered the papers secretly, 
and paid Dan Burke to read them to 
him ; for he was afraid to ask Jerry. So 
Dan read the fiery columns to Joe, and 
declared himself willing to extend Joe s 
credit to an indefinite extent ; congratu 
lated him on his boy, and prophesied 
that some day Jerry would be Presi 
dent ! 

And Joe went home and made the fire, 
and ground the coffee for supper, and 
in the midst stopped his work and put 
it all aside, covering his face with his 
hands. 

"I oughter a-done this for youuns, 
Nan," he whispered, " I oughter a-done 
it ! " then went away and hid among the 
rocks, that Jerry might not find, when 
he came home, that Joe had done his 
work for him. Nan had always done 
her own work and crouching down 
among the rocks he looked back at the 
little house saying : " Surely it s God s 
truth that dead folks come back surely 
it s God s truth." 

Meanwhile, in Eureka the talk ran 
high. Day by day the reports and sur 
mises grew more wild and numerous ; 
land values were run up to an imagi 
nary price that no fortune could com 
pass then a sudden stop ! 

The people were breathless and puz 
zled the speculators, who had come 
with such laudable desires to spare eve 



rybody trouble, and to save land for the 
poor who would certainly flock to this 
new opening, were bewildered ! 

" Somebody " had bought up all the 
public lands ! It was declared that with 
in a radius of twenty miles all the Gov 
ernment lands were gone ! 

There was a pause of deathlike still 
ness ; then a howl of rage and curses 
went up against this mysterious person 
who was to reap this immense fortune. 
People, and speculators, and adventur 
ers made common cause against this 
crafty "Unknown" ; and all small jeal 
ousies and animosities were merged in 
one great anger against this person who 
had over-reached them. 

And Jerry, boiling with indignation, 
denounced the " Unknown " openly and 
without stint ; the soulless creature who 
had done this wicked thing had specu 
lated on the necessities of the hungry 
hordes that would surely follow the 
road. 

His visions were all swept away ; for 
the land about Eureka was all gone ; 
bought up to be held until the crowd 
should flow a living stream across the 
mountains to this * promised land," only 
to find the sharpers before them ! 

It was a black crime, but a crime le 
galized by the Government ; and God 
would surely curse such a Government 
and Nation. 



CHAPTEK H. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool 

Visions of a perfect state ; 
Drink we last the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate." 

HIGHER and higher the excitement 
ran ; who was this mysterious buyer ? 

The newspaper was sarcastic, then 
angry, then bitter ; Jerry s articles grew 
longer and more darkly withering ; but 
all to no purpose, the Unknown did not 
reveal himself. 

Nearer and nearer the fateful railway 
came ; built only from the nearest town, 
it seemed to come with magical rapidity. 
It had worked its way now to one of the 
lowest passes in the mountains, and be 
fore long all doubts as to where it would 
come into Eureka would be over. 

And as time went on public opinion 



JERRY. 



197 



slowly but surely came to the one verdict, 
that this unknown person had bought 
his land in the right place ; the town of 
Eureka would spread all over his do 
main, if he would allow it. 

Higher and hotter the talk rose, and 
reports flew hither and thither. Then 
one morning one cloudy, cold, spring 
morning a morning Jerry never for 
got ; whose piercing dampness often 
touched him ; whose cloudy heaviness 
often weighed him down in after days 
a notice appeared in the Star a notice 
short and terse, offering high wages to 
workmen to lay off in lots this great 
tract of land ; and the doctor s name 
was signed to it. 

Jerry s heart seemed to stand still ; 
and a silence seemed to fall over the 
town. 

The doctor. The hero, the friend, the 
trusted benefactor of the town. 

Jerry turned away silently from the 
man who had shown him the notice ; he 
wanted to be alone, for he felt as if some 
hand had wounded him sorely. 

His hero doing this thing, speculating 
in what was man s inalienable right, 
Land ; the dust from which God made 
him ! 

Had not the doctor often discussed 
with him the sin of speculating in land ? 
More than this, had they not extended 
their discussions to the finer point of 
the injustice that lay at the foundation 
of large estates ; and had not the doctor 
disapproved, to a great extent, of it all ? 
How, then, must this action be read ? 

Was he doing it for Paul Henley ? 

Jerry s face darkened ; this thought 
seemed to hurt him more than all the 
possible sufferings of the immigrants 
who were expected ; and that this was 
so made him ashamed. Yet, was it pos 
sible that the doctor loved Paul to this 
extent that beautiful, delicate, useless 
creature ? 

Jerry clenched his fists. 

Was Paul made of different flesh and 
blood that he could not guide a plough ; 
could not dig ; could not eat common 
food, nor wear common clothes ? Had 
God made him of finer stuff ; so fine that 
his guardian was driven to wrong-doing 
in order to provide for him ? 

For twenty-four hours the country 
side made no sign, no sound ; then 



whispers crept about ; angry, malignant 
whispers, that intensified as the day 
went on. 

All these years that the doctor had 
been among them, they said, pretending 
to devote his time and money to the 
bettering of his fellow-creatures, he had 
been making his plans for this grand 
stroke of business. In his long rides 
about the country under cover of visit 
ing the poor and sick, he had been 
searching the land for gold ; been work 
ing hard in his own interests, and in the 
interests of his adopted son, Paul Hen 
ley. 

They declared that he had been for 
years in secret communication with this 
railway company, and had known all 
along how things would turn out. That 
he had bribed the Government to let 
him have the land for next to nothing ; 
had bribed the railway company to come 
in over his land, and to put the shops 
and station on his land. 

More than this, he had bought up 
gold-land at the same low price, deceiv 
ing the Government. The realization 
of the awful wickedness of these reported 
actions and motives seemed to dart like 
a flash through the usually stolid minds 
of the people ; and within a day after 
reading the doctor s call for workmen 
they made up their minds that no hand 
in either town would be lifted to work 
for him. 

And listening, and thinking, Jerry 
found that a public benefactor had no 
right to look after his own interests ; he 
saw that once to begin a course of self- 
sacrifice is to be bound to it forever ; the 
world watches closely, and never per 
mits a retrogression, not the deviation 
of a hair s breadth from the prescribed 
path. 

Prove your nose patient, and you 
prove it a poor thing meant for the 
grindstone. Unselfish natures prefer 
being imposed on, says the world, and 
benefactors have no right to be anything 
but benefactors. 

Meanwhile, Jerry felt like one walking 
in a dream ; and, after the first shock, 
after his mind had re-established itself, 
all the talk, even the printed notice, 
seemed absolutely preposterous and im 
possible. 

And all through the long day, during 



198 



JERRY. 



which he received many visits from his 
patrons, it was very clearly realized by 
him that not only all Eureka, but all 
Burden s, had declared against the doc 
tor, and were ready to cry him down, 
and, as far as possible, to ruin him. 

Jerry could scarcely believe the situa 
tion, and more than once during his 
many interviews with the people, he 
asked them if it were possible, even with 
this provocation, for them to condemn 
this man who had spent years in their 
service ; who had been their friend in 
ever} phase of life ; who had set no limit 
to the time nor the money spent for 
them. 

And the answer came sharply if the 
doctor had not pretended ; if, from the 
first, he had declared his intentions, 
they would not have blamed him ; but 
he had won their confidence by false 
pretences so that he could cheat them, 
and this they could not forgive. 

Jerry s repeated assurances that the 
doctor had bought the land for some 
good purpose, and not as a speculation, 
were not heeded, for all the facts of the 
case, as far as the people could see them, 
were against the doctor. The buying 
of the land was one fact ; the notice in 
the Star was another fact ; Jerry s ig 
norance of the transaction was a third 
fact ; and the fourth fact, which everj 7 - 
one knew, was that for years the doctor 
had been buying up the interests in the 
Eureka mines in the name of Paul Hen 
ley. 

"All this evidence could not be dis 
puted, and Jerry could only retreat on 
the declaration that, after all, there was 
no real reason why the doctor should 
not buy the land ; no real reason why 
the people should blame him for his 
course ; no reason save that he had given 
them so much that they felt they had a 
claim on all. 

He determined, after much hesitation, 
that he would go to the doctor and ask 
him for some explanation ; and yet, how 
could he do such a thing ; what right 
had he to question any act of this man ; 
how dare he look beyond his word and 
teaching ? 

Besides, the doctor knew all that had 
been said about this transaction before 
he revealed his name, and, if he had 
cared for the opinion of the people, he 



would have printed his explanation along 
with his call for workmen ; and if he had 
cared for Jerry, he would have given 
him long ago some hint that would have 
stopped his pen, and so would have left 
unsaid many hard things which had ir 
ritated the people against the unknown 
buyer. 

And with this last unavoidable con 
clusion, Jerry faced a truth that he had 
long realized, but from which he had 
turned away the truth that the doctor 
had never loved him. For years, ever 
since he had realized that the doctor 
was in every particular different from 
those about him, Jerry had watched him 
carefully, and by means of the deep love 
he bore him had learned that the doc 
tor s life was one long struggle to lose 
himself in anything that would absorb 
him. Through all disguises Jerry had 
seen this motive in all that the doctor 
did for the people about him ; and when 
he turned to his own case Jerry still saw 
this motive. The discovery hurt him, 
for always the thought followed, " I am 
a work that keeps him from remember 
ing I am a duty that satisfies his con 
science ; only this I am to him." It was 
through his love that Jerry had felt in 
the doctor s nature the lack of this same 
love ; found that the doctor had another 
theory than the one he held as to honest 
love and honest hate ; the doctor never 
flinched from his duty to all the world, 
nor to any segment of it that came within 
his reach, but he did not love it. 

And bitterly it had come home to 
Jerry that all the adoration he had with 
out question lavished on this his Ideal 
had fallen unheeded, if not unseen. 
This knowledge had not come to him all 
at once, but gradually, like the shadows 
that follow the morning sunlight all is 
still bright? but when you look attentive 
ly the shadow is where the sunlight was. 

The doctor was a mystery that with 
all his love Jerry could not solve. He 
was learning new lessons about him 
now, but his heart was growing heavy 
with the new wisdom. 

For years Jerry had realized in some 
measure the doctor s suffering, and had 
pitied him. Too often he had seen him 
sit for hours and never turn a page 
too often had seen the mask drop from 
his face and a deadly weariness take 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



199 



possession of it too often had found 
him lying face down on the rock over 
Burden s Mine too often he had seen 
these and other signs not to know that 
his past needed sympathy. All this had 
made him love this man with a pitying 
love that was pain ; but now the new 
wisdom that hurt him took the form of 
the, question " Was the doctor greedy 



for gain was it possible that this pitiful 
weakness touched his idol ? " 

That there must have been sin in his 
past to cause all the suffering in his 
present Jerry never doubted, but he 
had made sure always that they had 
been the sins of a noble nature ; but 
avarice could his idol fall so low as 
that? 



(To be continued.) 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 

By Grace Ellery Cbanning. 




IXTEEN in all. Five large ones, two 
small queer ones, four medium, three with 
the Greek pattern, the little brown one, and this 
beauty. Just look at it, Manuelo ! " and the speaker 
balanced in her hand, with an air of triumph, the 

delicate basket whose intricately woven tints formed a whole fascinating even to 
the eye of the uninitiated. 

" It is a good one, senorita," admitted Manuelo, guardedly. " The senorita has 
as fine a lot of baskets now as anyone in the valley, saving only old Anita. Ah ! if 

the senorita could see hers ! " 

He stopped abashed, for the young girl had clapped her hands over her ears,, 
and was shaking her head laughingly at him. 

" Manuelo ! Manuelo ! " said she, reproachfully, " how many times have I for 
bidden you to mention old Anita to me ? Isn t it enough to spend all my time 
and money, pursuing every basket which reaches my ears, without being 



200 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



haunted by the ghost of old Anita? 
Besides," she added, irrelevantly, " you 
know I don t believe in old Anita and 
her baskets." 

Manuelo smiled ; a smile like swift 
sunshine. "That is because you have 
not seen them, seiiorita," said he. " If 
you had, you would believe in no others. 
There is one of them so high, senorita " 
with a graceful turn of the wrist indi 
cating the size. 

" Three feet ! Why, it is a mammoth, 
Manuelo ! " 

"And fine" lie cast a disdainful 
glance at the baskets about her "you 
have nothing like it, senorita. But that 
is not all. Where the pattern goes there 
are feathers woodpecker s feathers 
woven in, all of the brightest scarlet 
oh, far gayer than these ! " 

Elsa shook her head, dejectedly. <* 

"You are determined to make me 
miserable, Manuelo. Now, what is the 
use of telling me this when Anita and 
her baskets are how many miles away ? 
and you know she wouldn t sell one of 
them for less than the price of a small 
ranch. If I were a man I might mount 
my horse, make off into the wilderness, 
and raid the mystical Anita for the sake 
of her baskets ; but since I am not " 
with an expressive smile the young girl 
turned again to the contemplation of her 
treasures. 

It was a pretty enough sight Manu 
elo thought so, at least the dainty 
creature surrounded by the ancient 
baskets, beneath a frame of splendid 
scarlet passion - flowers. The sunlight 

tlinted on her golden hair and floating 
ress ; and all about and beneath lay the 
fragrant groves of orange and lemon, and 
the gardens where roses red, white, and 
golden held carnival all the year round. 
A pretty sight, Manuelo thought, quite 
unaware what a striking element he 
himself added, cast upon the lower step 
with all the lazy grace of his nation in 
his figure, all its dark beauty in his 
face, and all its picturesqueness in his 
costume loose shirt, wide trousers, som 
brero, and gay kerchief knotted about 
his throat. By his side lay his guitar. 

There were two things on earth that 
Manuelo loved his guitar and Lolita. 

Lolita was loosely tethered in the 
grove at this moment. There was noth 



ing in her appearance to distinguish 
her from any other of the score of bron 
chos in the village. But as for the gui 
tar, there was none like it in all the 
South or West. In the first place, it was 
very old. Manuelo s mother had fingered 
it, and her mother s mother before her. 
They said it came first from Spain, a 
love-gift from some ardent Spanish 
lover, in the days when Manuelo s ances 
tors were great people in the new land, 
and to be a Mexican was to be of the 
nobility of California. Be that as it 
might, nothing else remained of all the 
traditional grandeur and pride save the 
guitar, and, perhaps, a statuesque turn 
of its young heritor s head. And the 
quaint golden inlaid tracery of the gui 
tar had grown rusty, while the statu 
esque head served only to set off a ragged 
sombrero. 

That troubled Manuelo not at all, 
strange compound of pride and careless 
ness, fiery impetuosity, and supine in 
dolence that he was. 

His old curmudgeon of an uncle, with 
whom he lived, might scold and swear, 
rolling Spanish oaths at him ; Manu 
elo was thoroughly contented with his 
meagre lot, equally happy while tearing 
madly about the country on Lolita, or 
lying idly at the feet of Elsa Loring, 
singing Southern melodies to his be 
loved guitar. 

How many hours he had spent so 
since blue-eyed Elsa came to occupy the 
hammock on the porch at Las Delicias, 
neither Manuelo nor Elsa cared to 
reckon. To Elsa it was such a natural 
thing to have him at her feet ; to Ma 
nuelo, so simply natural to be there. 
And now Elsa had contracted the basket 
craze. 

"What will you do with them all, 
senorita ? " demanded Manuelo, abruptly, 
after watching her silently for a space. 

Elsa looked up from the five she was 
critically trying to make a choice be 
tween. 

"Do with them?" she repeated, 
vaguely ; " oh, I shall take them home 
with me." She blushed a little. Manu 
elo said nothing. " You see," continued 
Elsa, confidentially, "in our part of the 
country they don t have anything like 
them, nothing half so beautiful, and so 
the people are all wild about them. The 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



201 



more I can get the better I shall like it, 
and the prouder I shall be. Only" 
she added, ruefully " I can t get many 
more, for I have pretty nearly ruined 
myself already, in spite of the wonder 
ful bargains you have found for me." 

Manuelo looked pleased. " You need 
not give yourself trouble for that, senor- 
ita," said he, "there are more, plenty 
more, and cheap. I will find them for 
you." 

Elsa s blue eyes gave him a glance be 
fore which his own fell for sheer joy. 

" Yes," said she, " I dare say you will. 
I believe you even cause them to spring 
from the ground. I am not sure you 
don t sit up nights to manufacture them 
yourself and all for a song ! Look at 
that beauty only four dollars it cost 
me. You could have sold it to the 
Englishman for double. I sometimes 
think, Manuelo, that you are too good 
to me." 

Manuelo looked out into the grove 
at Lolita. 

" Senorita," he stammered, " impos 
sible ! It is you who are too good." 

" And all the other things, the walks, 
and drives, and music," persisted the 
girl, "when I was so ill, and they 
brought me here to cure me, and I was 
so homesick that I almost preferred to 
die. Do you know what I should have 
done without your music ? I should 
have gone mad." 

She turned her eyes to him. Actually 
there were tears in them. 

Manuelo sprang from his step. " Sen 
orita," he cried, quite beside himself, 
" I beg of you ! It was all nothing ! 
I loved to do it, senorita the walks, 
the drives, the music ; and as for the 
baskets a miserable set of wretched 
ones, not worth your thanks," he added, 
in order to dispose of them utterly. 
" Now, had they been the baskets of 
Anita, the senorita might indeed " 

And Elsa threw back her golden head 
and laughed merrily with still moist 
eyes. 

"Aunt Mary," she said, an hour later 
Manuelo, after singing her many songs, 
had gone in search of the mail, a duty 
he had long since assumed, counting 
himself richly paid for the dusty ride 
by the smile home letters brought to 
Elsa s lips "Aunt Mary," said she, 



" this is the loveliest country on earth, 
but it would be rather dull without 
Manuelo, don t you think? Tell me 
what can I give him to show how grate 
ful I am to him ? " 

Aunt Mary thought a moment, her 
mild eyes fastened upon the delicate 
wild-rose face before her. Perhaps that 
very thing suggested her reply. 

"My dear," she said, "why not give 
him your photograph ? " 

Elsa sat bolt upright in horror. 

" Good gracious, Aunt Mary ! My 
photograph to Manuelo ! " 

" Well, my dear," answered the placid 
lady, "there is nothing he would like 
so well. You asked my opinion. You 
owe a great deal to his devoted service. 
He has shown himself a faithful friend, 
and it would please him to be treated 
as such. Besides, the lad is a gentle 
man. Under the circumstances there 
can be no impropriety." 

" No, of course not," murmured Elsa, 
blushing daintily, "but it is very, very 
unorthodox ! Still, as you say, I owe 
him a great deal." 

She sat very thoughtfully after that 
for a long time, leaning back in the ham 
mock, letting her eyes wander from the 
nest of roses and passion-flowers about 
her, over palms, and pepper-tops, to the 
distant snow-capped peaks against the 
sky of more than Italian blue. All that 
landscape was full of Manuelo to her 
full as her days had been since she first 
came, a delicate invalid, who could do no 
more than lie all day in the hammock 
and listlessly absorb the sunlight. Well, 
it was Manuelo who swung the hammock 
for her the very day after her arrival 
Manuelo, who chanced just then to be 
irrigating the orange-groves at Las De- 
licias. 

Elsa s fragile grace and fairness, the 
golden hair and blue eyes which looked 
twice angelic beside the florid Spanish 
beauties and tropical wealth of color all 
about, exercised a subtle spell upon 
Manuelo from the outset. Her suffer 
ings and needs appealed to all that was 
chivalrous in his ardent nature. From 
watching to occasional ready aid, from 
that to daily service, was a rapid growth. 
Never had lady more devoted cavalier 
than Elsa in the dark-eyed Mexican. It 
was he who guided her walks ; who found 



202 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



a safe little mustang for her ; who de 
vised excursions ; who piloted her to all 
the points of beauty ; who introduced 
her to the Padre at the old mission, and 
trotted out for her benefit all pictur 
esque characters in the neighborhood ; 
who ransacked huts and scoured ranches 
in pursuit of Indian baskets, when fi 
nally the fell mania of collecting seized 
upon Elsa. 

" Manuelo," she asked him once, mar 
velling at his unwearied energy, "why 
is it that you, who are so full of activity, 
don t do something ? " 

" Senorita," he replied, calmly, looking 
up from under his sombrero, " there is 
nothing to do." 

" Then why not go away? " persisted 
Elsa. " You are young and strong. You 
waste your life in this sleepy little village." 

Manuelo s eyes grew suddenly very far 
away. 

" Who knows ? " said he, dreamily ; 
"I have thought of it. It is dull at 
times, and Pedro grows crosser. There 
is my cousin Jesus in the Esperanza 
mines. There there is always something. 
Perhaps some day ! " 

" Some day is no day," said Elsa, shak 
ing her head. "You should make up 
your mind and go at once." 

Manuelo glanced about, at the garden, 
the vine-covered porch, the cool little 
fountain in its forest of calla lilies, then 
he looked at Elsa and smiled very sweetly. 

" Senorita," said he, " it is good here 
too." He picked up the guitar, touched 
the chords, and swept the girl away with 
the magic of a Southern song. 

Elsa thought of all these things and 
many more now. The result of her 
meditation was that she selected from 
her desk that night a photograph of 
herself. On the back she wrote, " Ma 
nuelo, from Elsa Loring, with grateful 
thanks." 

She gave it to him the next day with 
a little graceful, merry phrase ; but she 
was totally unprepared for its effect 
upon Manuelo. 

A great wave of color, of light, surged 
into his face and glowing eyes. He ab 
solutely trembled. For a moment he 
could say nothing. When he did speak, 
it was but two stammering, tremulous 
words. 

" Senorita ! Gracias ! mille gracias ! " 



"It is nothing, nothing at all, Manu 
elo," said Elsa, lightly. But in her heart 
she had a sudden misgiving as to the 
wisdom of Aunt Mary s benevolence. 

Manuelo never spoke again of the 
gift. Only he was, if possible, more 
serviceable and gentle and thoughtful 
than ever, while his mellow voice and 
plaintive guitar might be heard nightly 
floating above the perfumed groves of 
Las Delicias. 

Elsa grew fonder and fonder of him, 
and treated him like a favored brother. 
She found the country, the climate, and 
Manuelo all perfect, and declared that 
she herself should be perfectly happy 
but for one thing. 

" And that one thing ? " said Aunt 

Mary, with a smile. 

" The baskets of Anita," asserted Elsa, 
as with a mischievous laugh she disap 
peared into the house. 

The peaceful weeks new by. In a land 
where there is nothing to mark the flight 
of time save fresh succession of flowers, 
time flies faster than elsewhere. The 
oranges came, and ripened upon the 
trees into luscious globes of juicy sweet 
ness ; the almonds blossomed, and the 
apricots and peaches turned the land 
scape into a Japanese garden of pearl 
and white. The poppies blossomed and 
ran across the mesas, acres of them, 
waves of living, palpitating orange- 
golden glow. The larks came and sang 
over them. One by one out came the 
multitudinous wild flowers and car 
peted every inch of ground, running 
boldly into the very poppy-fields. And, 
finally, when every tree and bush and 
bit of land was set in flower and leaf 
and clothing green, the roses held their 
perfect April festival. By millions they 
waved and climbed and bloomed ex 
travagantly on every hand. White and 
gold and crimson, and every tint be 
tween, the land disappeared under roses, 
the whole face of the country glowed and 
blossomed with them. 

So, perfumed and flattered andwooed, 
and caressed by flowers and sun and 
softest air, the fragile Elsa strength 
ened her hold of life daily, and bloomed, 
like the land about her, into beauty and 
sudden happiness. Such a change had 
come over her. Manuelo was not a little 
proud of it. 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



203 



" Senorita," said he, " you should live 
always in our South." 

Basket-hunting remained Elsa s favor 
ite occupation. She was constantly re 
newing her determination to consider 
the collection complete, and as con 
stantly being lured from it by the sight 
of a novel form, a quaint pattern, or 
some "bargain too good to be lost." 

Her collection was quite a theme of 
interest to all the inhabitants of the 
little village who knew her, each one of 
them personally, by this time. They 
were fond of bringing their friends to 
see the assortment which Elsa was al 
ways ready to display, and more than 
one excellent bargain found its way to 
Elsa s ears through their interest. It 
was early days then. If Elsa went back 
now to the village she would find baskets 
rarer than roses in an Eastern winter, 
and held at proportionate prices. But in 
these days she had it much her own way. 

Many and various were the baskets. 
Great bell-shaped black and white ones ; 
tall, delicate, vase-like shapes ; odd ones 
like hour-glasses broken abruptly ; some 
small and dainty like a lady s bonbon- 
niere ; others flat and like tiny saucers 
for sweet-breathed violets there was 
no shape, size, or texture missing from 
Elsa s store. Of every age, tint, degree 
of wholeness and cleanliness truly they 
formed a treasure to make a connois 
seur s heart beat high and enviously. 

One unusually warm afternoon Ma- 
nuelo rode up to the entrance of Las 
Delicias. He had been setting out 
orange-slips all day, and then had rid 
den a couple of miles beyond to secure 
a basket of which Francisco Martinez 
had told him over their work. Baskets 
were growing scarce, and Manuelo had 
to look farther afield each day. 

This one proved to be a miserable 
affair, small, dingy, and ragged, besides 
smelling most self-assertingly of all its 
latest uses. Manuelo almost decided 
not to take it at all, but he hated to go 
back empty-handed. The owner com 
pounded for "four bits," and finally 
Manuelo left the hut with the basket in 
his hand and disdain in his eyes. 

" Still," thought he, solacingly, "it is 
one more, and will amuse the senorita." 

He made Lolita fast to the usual pep 
per-tree. "Here is Manuelo now," he 



heard Elsa say, as he came up the path. 
And then a fierce pang of jealousy smote 
his heart. 

On the top of the wide steps sat Elsa, 
radiant, and Aunt Mary close behind ; 
and in front of Elsa, huge, mellowed by 
age to a beguiling brown, and with a 
great, florid pattern sprawling alluringly 
about its wide mouth, stood the king of 
all baskets. Yet it was not the basket, 
nor Elsa s triumphant eyes, which Ma 
nuelo noticed with that bitter pang, but 
the lounging figure of Jose Silva on the 
step below. 

Jose was the natural rival of Manuelo. 
In the first place Jose was a year older, 
and an inch taller, and as agile with his 
feet as Manuelo with his fingers the 
best dancer, as Manuelo was the best 
musician, in San Miguel. In the second 
place, Jose had in his blood that taint 
which no Mexican ever pardons the 
Indian taint and Manuelo was a Mex 
ican Caballero at heart, with all the 
pride and prejudice of his race hot 
within him. There was no love lost 
between the two. Doubtless it was more 
to anger Manuelo than for any other 
purpose that Jose, knowing well his de 
votion to Elsa had he not ridiculed it 
for months back as openly as he dared ? 
had taken the pains to bring her a 
basket which far outrivalled any Manu 
elo had ever been able to find. 

"No doubt he stole it," thought Ma 
nuelo, bitterly, as he w r ent up the steps. 
He was too proud to show his feelings, 
except by an extra touch of Castilian 
dignity as he saluted the ladies and 
Jose. 

" Only look, Manuelo ! " cried Elsa, 
unable to suppress her excitement. 
" Jose has brought me the most magni 
ficent basket ! Only see how fine it is, 
and what a pattern ! He says it is at 
least a hundred years old. Isn t it su 
perb?" 

"It is very fine, sefiorita," answered 
Manuelo, proudly. 

" And only ten dollars," said Elsa, ex 
ultantly. "Think of it! Why, I wouldn t 
have missed it for half as much again." 

Jose smiled, a swift, flashing smile. 
He was very handsome when he smiled. 

Manuelo hated him. 

" Then take care, senorita," said Jose, 
" I may raise my price." 



204 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



Elsa laughed. "No," she said, "I 
am not afraid. You are honest ; all you 
Mexicans are. Look at Manuelo ; he 
has sold me baskets for a song all win 
ter." 

Jose glanced, just glanced, at the bas 
kets about him, and then back at his 
own, and he smiled a little. The smile 
said as plainly as words, " I am too polite 

to say so, but such baskets ! Now 

mine ! " 

Manuelo s blood boiled. He, too, looked 
bitterly at the baskets he had gathered 
with such loving pride. How coarse 
and dingy and common they had all at 
once grown beside the magnificent bas 
ket of Jose. And as for the last w r retched 
one he would gladly have thrown it 
out into the grove, had such a thing 
been possible. At this very moment 
Elsa caught sight of it. 

" Oh ! " she exclaimed, " what is that 
in your hand? another basket for 
me?" 

Manuelo gathered all his Castilian 
pride. He produced the basket and 
handed it to her indifferently. 

"It is a wretched one, seilorita," he 
said, calmly, "but will serve to increase 
your collection." 

Elsa took it and looked at it silently. 

Josu looked at it too, and smiled. 

"It was very kind of you to bring it," 
said Elsa, gently, "and I only wonder 
you could find any you have brought 
me so many." She put it beside the 
others, then she stood off and looked at 
the entire row. Manuelo watched the 
varying expression as she looked from 
one to another. When she came to the 
monster which headed the line with an 
air of conscious superiority (for which 
Manuelo could have kicked it) her eyes 
brightened with delight, and she clasped 
her hands together, naively ; Manuelo s 
heart contracted. " Oh, you beauty ! " 
she exclaimed, involuntarily ; then, " I 
believe I shall have to give up collecting 
now," she said, with a laugh. "I shall 
never be satisfied with anything less 
than this again, and there are no more, 
there can t be any more like it can 
there, Manuelo ? " She turned to him, 
confidingly. "Did you ever see a bas 
ket more beautiful than this?" 

Jose cast a glance of malice. Manuelo 
drew himself up proudly. 



"Senorita," said he, "yes the bas 
kets of Anita!" Then he felt himself 
grow scarlet, for there was an irrepres 
sible ripple of laughter, quickly sup 
pressed, from Aunt Mary, and a hoarse 
chuckle from Jose. Even Elsa had 
smiled a swift, involuntary smile. But 
Elsa was a little gentlewoman, and there 
was no mistaking the sudden passion 
of Manuelo s eyes. 

" Oh, yes, surely," she said, with easy 
naturalness, " I had forgotten the beauti 
ful baskets of Anita." Then she picked 
up one of the lesser baskets, crowned 
it with scarlet passion-flowers, and 
called upon them all to admire the 
effect. 

It was gracefully and graciously done, 
and Manuelo knew it. He took up his 
hat quickly. 

" Adios, senorita ! " said he. Elsa 
looked up quickly. 

" Are you going already, Manuelo ? 
Will you not stay and sing for us ? " 

He shook his head. "Thanks, sen 
orita ; " catching the mocking eyes of 
Jose he murmured something about 
" manana." Then he turned away down 
the rose-bordered path under the olives, 
carrying his head very high indeed, 
while the guitar dangled at his side. 

Poor Manuelo ! He knew worst of 
all that he had betrayed himself ; that 
all his pride had not availed. Ridiculed, 
despised, his loving work of all the 
winter made worthless in a single mo 
ment, and finally to be misbelieved. He 
had not minded Elsa s laughing jests at 
old Anita all winter what a different 
thing they sounded now in the light of 
Jose s mocking eyes. Manuelo set his 
teeth and his face grew stern. 

" We shall see if they will believe or 
no," said he. 

He unfastened Lolita, threw himself 
upon her, thrust his heels into her sides, 
and without a backward glance at the 
house galloped away. 

Old Pedro was standing in front of 
the dilapidated adobe house when the 
clattering of swift hoofs came up the 
road, and Manuelo, leaping lightly down, 
with a dexterous turn of the rein made 
the pony fast to a low pepper-tree. 
Then he came up to Pedro, who took 
his pipe from his mouth and regarded 
him disapprovingly. 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



205 



he. 



How now, lazy bones ! " grumbled 



Manuelo was pale, and the dust lay 
thickly upon his purple kerchief. 

" Money ! " said Manuelo, briefly. 

Old Pedro sniffed scornfully, and put 
his pipe back again. Manuelo came a 
step nearer. 

" I want money ! you hear ? I must 
and I will have it ! " 

" Do you expect me to give it to you, 
then, idler ? Where is that from the 
orange picking ? Gone ! thrown away ! 
and you think I will give you more to 
throw in the dust," Pedro s voice 
was raised discordantly "good-for- 
nothing ! Not I ! " 

" See," said Manuelo, " will you lend 
it?" 

" No," said Pedro, " not a cent will 
I!" 

Manuelo made a despairing gesture. 

" Have it I must, and will ! " He 
turned away, leaned against Lolita, 
one hand thrown across her neck, and 
thought desperately. 

Old Pedro watched him curiously. 
Suddenly an evil light came into his 
eyes. 

"Manuelito," said he, caressingly. 

" Yes," said Manuelo, mechanically ; 
he was thinking, thinking. , 

" You want that money badly ? " with 
an evil grin. 

" Desperately." 

"Good! Give me the guitar you 
shall have it." 

Manuelo started violently. Involun 
tarily he laid his hand upon it. Sell 
the guitar, his best-beloved, his treas 
ure ! He dragged it hastily round, and 
glared at it, the sole remnant of all the 
faded glories of his family. As soon 
part with Lolita ! 

" Good ! " said old Pedro, with a 
sneer ; "you can do without the money, 
idiot, that s plain to see." He turned 
to go in. 

" Wait ! " said Manuelo. He unstrung 
the guitar from his shoulder, and held 
it out in both hands to Pedro. 

" How much for it ? " said he. 

Old Pedro came back grumbling. 
The guitar was very old, the inlaid part 
shabby ; it would need new strings ; he 
feared the tone was not what it had 
been. 



" Twenty-five dollars," said Manuelo, 
sternly, " and it is yours." 

Pedro held up his hands to heaven. 

Twenty-five dollars ! Saints above ! 
was he made of money ? Fifteen would 
be ruinous. 

" Twenty-five dollars now, on the 
spot, or I will take it to the Englishman, 
who you know will give me thirty. 
Yes or no ! " 

" No ! " 

Without a word Manuelo slung the 
guitar over his head and turned to Lo 
lita. 

"Now, did ever one see such a hot 
head ! " cried old Pedro, in grieved sur 
prise. "A word is a blow with him. 
Here, madcap, give me the guitar and 
take the money. Besides, the English 
man is away and you are in haste to 
throw the good money in the dust, I 
warrant. Come, bring on the guitar." 
And so, grumbling and swearing, the old 
man went in and unearthed his miserly 
guarded store. Manuelo stood by im 
passive and silent, having once more 
unslung the guitar. 

"Here," said Pedro at last, reluc 
tantly handing the money to him. It 
went to Pedro s heart to part with these 
dollars, but there was consolation in 
the guitar. He knew, if Manuelo did 
not, what the curio-hunting English 
man would give for the rarest guitar in 
America. 

Manuelo took the money, laid the gui 
tar in the grasping hands outstretched 
for it, and turned away. He leaped 
straight upon Lolita, and paying no 
heed to the questions and commands 
which Pedro screamed after him, rode 
off under the drooping peppers. 

" The mad fool ! " grumbled Pedro. 
And then he looked at the guitar and 
chuckled to himself. 

Three days and three nights Manuelo 
loped southward to the mountains. He 
stopped each night at some ranchero s, 
but each morning s sun found him 
again on Lolita s back, his canteria 
stuffed with some frugal provision for 
the day. The mountains about grew 
steeper, the ranches lengthened into 
broad domains holding each many 
square miles in its boundaries ; the vil 
lages dwindled into mere scattered 



206 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



hamlets, and finally there was not much 
else than a rude trail from one solitary 
adobe hut to another. But it grew 
ever more picturesque. The chaparal- 
covered hills were abloom with silver ; 
quails and wood-doves, jack-rabbits and 
squirrels started up in all directions 
from under Lolita s feet ; and the yuc 
cas, myriads of them, stood thickly over 
the sides of the great hills, and high on 
impassable ledges above the wild ra 
vines, like the multitudinous snowy 
banners of a hidden army. 

It was very still. There were no car 
riages, still less railroads. Only now 
and then the figure of a horseman go 
ing at the easy lope which replaces a 
walk where distances are always meas 
ured by miles, or a solitary tourist with 
his bag and gun slung across his shoul 
der. For, year by year, as the ranches 
go, as the " Greaser " and the Indian 
go, as all the semi-tropical Spanish- 
Bohemianism is driven farther back, the 
picturesque-loving tourist takes refuge 
more and more in " tramping " it 
through the by-ways of California. 

It was late on the afternoon of the 
third day when Manuelo, loping along 
over a level mesa, beheld high upon a 
hillside the object of his quest a gray 
patch which his experienced eye knew 
for a cluster of adobe huts. He drew a 
sigh of relief. 

" So," he muttered, " there they are. 
It is well." Then he bent and stroked 
Lolita s neck reassuringly. 

"Courage, my darling," said he, "we 
are almost there, and then a good sup 
per and a night s rest for thee." 

At that moment, round the sharp turn 
of the road came a pedestrian ; a pedes 
trian at whom Manuelo glanced care 
lessly, then with sudden wonder, then 
with a thrill, a shock which made his 
heart bound and stand still. 

The stranger was young, thirty per 
haps, tall and slender. He walked with 
the assured gait of a mountain-climber, 
but his jaunty costume betrayed the 
"civilizee," if not the dandy. A pictu 
resque sombrero shaded his handsome 
face, out of which two clear gray eyes 
looked coolly and merrily. Certainly 
there was nothing in all this to make 
Manuelo s heart behave so madly ! The 
stranger carried a gun across his shoul 



der, and from a leather strap hung a 
bag, sketching-stool, and a mammoth 
Indian basket. Upon this basket the 
gaze of Manuelo was fastened with silent 
horror. Big, brown, finer than woven 
silk ; and woven in a marvellous pattern 
which showed a constant scarlet gleam 
throughout it, Manuelo would have 
known it among ten thousand others 
the basket of Anita ! Meanwhile the 
stranger had approached, and lifting 
his hat with a smiling "Buenos dios, 
sefior ! " was passing by. At the same 
instant Manuelo reined Lolita straight 
across the path. "Senor," said he, "a 
thousand pardons ! " He leaped from 
his horse. The stranger regarded him 
coolly but friendlily. 

" A thousand pardons, senor," repeat 
ed Manuelo, agitatedly, taking off his 
hat. "You have there a fine basket, 
seiior ! " 

The "seiior" smiled. "You are a 
connoisseur, then, my friend ? " said he. 
"Yes, it is a magnificent specimen." 
He pulled it round and contemplated it 
with satisfaction. " I bought it from an 
old Indian woman up yonder," he added, 
"and I am inclined to think I was in 
luck, though she fleeced me to a pretty 
extent. It weighs more than a feather, 
too," he added, smiling as he readjusted 
it with a little shrug. 

"Senor" Manuelo s heart beat so 
fast and hard it must almost have been 
visible through his jacket "as you 
say, it weighs ; you will find it will grow 
heavier as you go, senor. If you would 
care to part with it " 

"Thanks ! " said the stranger, calmly, 
" I am in nowise anxious." 

"If it were a question of the 
price ?" 

"It is not in the least a question of 
the price." 

" Senor " Manuelo s tone was en 
treating, supplicating. "I have come 
many miles to purchase that basket. 
Three days have I travelled, seiior ! If 
you would but sell it " 

The stranger looked at him with new 
interest. He noticed for the first time 
the haggard lines of the young Mexican s 
face. 

" Why do you come so far and take 
so much trouble for this particular bas 
ket : there must be thousands of oth- 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



207 



ers ? " he asked, with direct and clear 
scrutiny. 

"There are thousands of others, 
senor ; yes ! but there is none other 
like this in all the country." 

The senor smiled a little triumphantly. 

"In that case," said he, "you must 
understand that, having been lucky 
enough to find it, I may naturally wish 
to keep it. I am sorry for you, my 
friend," he added, "sorry to be dis 
obliging, but I am a collector of beauti 
ful things, an artist, and this basket is, 
by your own admission, a treasure." 
He bowed and made a step to pass 
politely. But Manuelo laid a desperate 
hand upon his arm. 

" Senor," said he, " would no price 
tempt you ? Would you not sell it even 
for a large, a very large price ? " 

The stranger smiled. "Why," said 
he, "I don t say that. I dare say I 
might if the price were large enough ; 
I am by no means a millionaire." 

Manuelo drew himself up. " Senor," 
said he, calmly, "I offer you twenty-five 
dollars." 

The stranger started and his eyes 
grew kindly, almost compassionate in 
their gaze. "My poor boy," said he, 
gently, "I could not take it from 
you." 

Manuelo s head began to go round 
and round. 

" Sefior," said he, desperately, " you 
must you will ! It is not from me ; it 
is it is from a rich old Englishman, a 
madman for baskets. He will pay any 
price ; he cares not what they cost him, 
and he has set his heart upon this. 
Twenty-five dollars is nothing to him 
nothing, sefior ! Look ! " He plunged 
his hand into his pocket and brought it 
out full of loose gold and silver. " This 
is all his, you may suppose, senor it is 
not mine ! But the basket I pledged 
myself. You will sell it, senor ? for the 
love of God ! There are reasons ! 
sefior ! " 

He stopped, and hung with all his 
soul upon the moment s pause. P.. wild 
notion of offering to throw in Lolita, too, 
flashed across him, but he felt its un- 
tenableness in conjunction with the 
Englishman. 

Meanwhile the stranger looked doubt 
fully from Manuelo to the basket. 



" There is something which strikes me 
as odd about this transaction," he thought 
to himself, quizzically, profoundly puz 
zled. " I am a tenderfoot, and, possibly, 
this is one of the customs of this singu 
lar country. Still, to keep a mounted 
Mexican curio-hunter scouting about the 
country with unlimited credit no, cash 
seems to me an unique luxury, even 
for a wealthy Inglese. However," he 
added to himself, tolerantly, "that s 
none of my business, is it? and the 
boy s pride is evidently on the qui vive 
to secure this treasure. Shall I let him 
have it? He certainly wouldn t own 
that cash, or be so free with it if he did. 
No doubt he gets his little profit from 
it, so why should I scruple ? " 

"Very well," he said at last, aloud, 
" since you and your Englishman are in 
the majority, I will part with the basket 
at that figure." 

" Seiior ! mille gracias ! " Gratitude, 
the most fervent and genuine gratitude 
spoke in the tones, and the eloquent 
dark eyes. 

" Decidedly," thought the senor, " this 
passes ! " 

Manuelo counted out the twenty-five 
dollars, and offered it to the stranger, 
who was slow to take it. 

" You are sure," he said, " that you 
do not repent ; that you are not exceed 
ing your Englishman s authority ? " 

" Senor sure ! " 

The stranger unslung the basket and 
handed it to Manuelo. " Adios, my 
friend," said he, kindly ; "I yield to you 
more than to the Englishman s dollars." 

Manuelo removed his sombrero, and 
stepped aside to clear the path. Under 
one arm he clasped the basket. 

" Adios, senor," said he, courteously, 
his dark eyes lit with joy, his whole face 
beaming. 

With a parting smile the stranger dis 
appeared down the winding path, while 
Manuelo, his heart singing within him, 
leading Lolita and bearing the basket, 
went slowly up the mountain trail. 

Three days afterward he entered the 
town of San Miguel, dusty, travel-stained, 
and penniless, but with his mission ac 
complished. He brought with him the 
basket of Anita. 

He did not go at once to Las Delicias. 
Being a lover, he was fastidious. Being 



208 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



a Spaniard, he was something of a poet ; 
and both the lover and the poet in him 
dictated that a victor should go not 
unadorned, bearing his spoils unto his 
lady. So he went straight to the hut of 
old Pedro. 

Pedro was out, which was an agree 
able omen at the outset. Having watered, 
fed, and groomed Lolita, Manuelo en 
tered the little hut, washed away the dust 
of his six day s ride, donned his fiesta 
suit, knotted the gayest kerchief about 
his beautiful throat, and emerged as 
gallant a cavalier as heart could wish. 

Only he missed the guitar. But be 
fore his e} T es stood the basket. Smiling 
he caught it up, and with the lightest 
heart resaddled the refreshed Lolita, 
and rode straight to Las Delicias. 

It was evening. A superb southern 
moon flooded the quiet town with such 
light as one must go to California even 
to imagine. The wide casements and 
windows at Las Delicias all stood open, 
but there was no one on the porch when 
Manuelo made his way up the path with 
the basket in his hands. He looked in 
side. Still no one. Perhaps, thought 
Manuelo, they had strolled into the 
grove. He stood a moment, irresolute, 
beside the clump of over-reaching lau- 
restinas, when all at once voices came to 
him, drifting across the still air from the 
lime-walks on the left ; and at the same 
moment they the voices emerged into 
the moonlit space beyond. The myste 
rious silver glow made them visible like 
figures in a dream. Manuelo, sunk in 
the shadow, was in another world. 

Elsa s white dress brushed her com 
panion why not, since his arm was 
about her? and her sweet eyes were 
raised with infinite contentment to the 
strong, loving ones looking down at 
her. 

"And so/ said she, "all the time I 
have been hard at work for you ; and 
while you were tramping about in search 
of beautiful scenes, I was hoarding 
beautiful things for you. There will be 
enough to fill the studio." 

"All of which," answered the mellow 
voice, "was very naughty of you, my 
sweetheart! You were to do nothing 
but get well and strong for me." 

" Oh, but I did that too ! " answered 
Elsa, lightly. " So well and strong, all 



the time I was riding, and climbing, and 
hunting up treasures. Only ask Manu 
elo." 

" And who is Manuelo ? " 

" Manuelo is Manuelo ! My devoted 
cavalier, the dearest and most delight 
ful fellow ! He has been better than 
the sun and air to me ; and, dear, you 
will not mind that I gave him my 
picture ? Aunt Mary said, under the cir 
cumstances it was quite right. If I had 
not been betrothed, of course, I would 
not have done it. You are not dis 
pleased ? " 

" Displeased ! my beloved ! Wait and 
see how I shall thank him for being 
good to you ! " 

"He has deserted us for some days 
orange-picking, I suppose but you 
will see that he never forgets me ; I am 
sure he will bring me a basket when he 
comes." 

"Then," said the mellow voice, be 
tween mirth and regret, " I have lost my 
only chance of outrivalling him in his 
own line. You should have seen the 
basket I let slip through my hands the 
other day, Elsa ! " 

" Oh, Robert ! but why ? " 

" Well, I had purchased it against my 
conscience, to begin with, at the rate of 
fifteen dollars ; and it was a mighty one, 
a regular elephant for a poor pedestrian 
who was foolishly impatient to catch a 
certain train, in order to reach a cer 
tain little sweetheart of his ! However," 
lightly, " I dare say I should have hung 
on to the basket in spite of qualms of 
conscience and legs, had I not encoun 
tered a basket-hunter who was madder 
than I, and who offered me the pretty 
sum of twenty -five dollars for it." 

" And you let it go oh ! " 

" Well, my darling, he did want it so 
very badly and what right had an im 
pecunious artist to luxuries of that mar 
ket value? And then I did not know 
you were smitten with the basket craze, 
sweetheart, or I would have kept the 
basket, and gone without say, coal." 

But this mild sarcasm was thrown 
away. Elsa, the basket-bewitched, was 
dreaming of the lost one. 

" What was it like ? " was her medita 
tive and irrelevant reply. 

"Well," resignedly, "its majesty 
would stand, I think, about three feet 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



209 



high. It was very quaintly shaped. It 
was the finest I ever have seen. There 
was a beguiling, mellow-brown tone to 
the whole, which attested its honorable 
age, and a most seductive pattern climb 
ing about its sides. But there was some 
thing more a gleam of scarlet about it 
which gave it character." 

Elsa clasped her hands. "And you 
sold it ! How could you ? Why, it 
is like the basket of Anita ! " 

"Now, who in the name of reason 
is Anita? Another of your attendant 
sprites?" 

" Anita is a mythical old woman who 
lives on a mythical hill, and nurses a 
mythical basket, visible only to the eyes 
of Manuelo and whose Doppelganger 
you sol " 

"Sweetheart!" 

Two transfigured faces were uplifted 
in the moonlight, and two pairs of lips 
melted together. 

Perfectly unobserved, a shadow melt 
ed into the shadows down the road. 



Unobserved, Manuelo led Lolita out into 
the road and leaped upon her back. He 
hesitated a moment only a moment 
then he turned her head away from the 
old mission and Pedro, and galloped 
straight into the open country, toward 
the mines of Esperanza. 

It was only an hour later that Elsa, 
running up the steps with happy, un 
seeing eyes, stumbled over something, 
tripped, and would have fallen headlong, 
but for the arms about her. 

"Why! what was that?" exclaimed 
Elsa. 

Her lover stooped, fumbled in the 
uncertain dusk until his hand encoun 
tered the object ; then he held it up in 
the moonlight. 

There was an exclamation from both, 
then silence. 

They had recognized, at the same 
moment, the upturned photograph in its 
depth, and the scarlet gleam of wood 
pecker s feathers about its rim. 

It was the basket of Anita. 




V*mjmftm 



VOL. VIII. 20 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 

By Edward Marston. 




VEEYTHING relating 
to Mr. Stanley seems to 
possess a special and 
peculiar interest for a 
very large portion of the 
public of many nation 
alities. Such readers I 
have thought might be glad to know 
something about the method of writ 
ing, and the daily life, of the author 
of a work respecting the appearance of 
which they have already evinced such a 
very extraordinary interest, for probably 
no book has ever been more eagerly 
looked for in every part of the civilized 
world, and in many languages, than the 
one which Mr. Stanley lately finished. 

On Mr. Stanley s arrival in Cairo he 
immediately telegraphed to me, inviting 
me to pay him a visit there, with a view 
to forward the progress of the great work 
he had in hand ; and he suggested that 
I should bring an artist with me. I 
need not say that I accepted the invita 
tion with the greatest possible pleasure. 
I arrived at Cairo at three o clock on 
the morning of my sixty-sixth birthday. 
It would have been too much to expect 
the great man himself to meet me at 
the station at that unreasonable hour. I 
was very grateful to find that he had sent 
his courier and dragoman with two car 
riages ; the carriages had been specially 
engaged some hours before, and were 
left outside while the men looked after 
me and my luggage ; by the time we got 
through and out of the station, one had 
decamped, and the other was occupied 
by a stalwart foreigner who swore loudly 
that there he was and there he meant to 
remain in spite of any engagements to 
the contrary. Eemonstrance or expla 
nation in a tongue unknown to him was 
useless. Possession was the whole of 
the law here. There was not another 



carriage to be found, but there were 
scores of screaming and fighting Arabs 
to carry our luggage, and we had to walk 
to our hotel. The affectionate warmth 
of Stanley s greeting when we met, at 
once made me quite at home, and I found 
myself the guest of a very remarkable 
man, whose name was ringing through 
the civilized and uncivilized world ; a 
man whom everyone was longing to see 
as the hero of the day. To be so hon 
ored and so sought after was, as he one 
day said to me, " enough to turn his 
head, if he had not had much more seri 
ous matters to think about." 

I think it may be looked upon as an 
almost unique thing in the history of 
authors and publishers for a publisher 
to be invited to travel so far to give prac 
tical assistance to an author in the prep 
aration of his manuscript. The truth, 
however, was that a great book had to be 
written within a certain period of time, 
and if not completed by that time, there 
was every chance that it would never be 
completed at all. 

To attain this end Mr. Stanley had 
very wisely decided not to proceed home, 
where to write his book in peace and 
quietness was out of the question ; while 
in Egypt there was a possibility of com 
parative seclusion, and the advantages 
of a most delightful climate, where even 
confinement to the desk would not be 
so injurious as in the murky atmos 
phere of London at that period of the 
year. Those who know Cairo are well 
aware that its climate during the winter 
months is simply perfect. The dry and 
exhilarating air acts in itself as a tonic, 
and the almost complete absence of rain 
and fog and leaden skies, and the ge 
nial temperature, all combine to make 
life in Cairo, even to a recluse, thor 
oughly enjoyable. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



211 



Mr. Stanley, after his arrival, and after 
the first display of honors forced upon 
him by the Khedive and other digni 
taries of the place, very wisely departed 
from the noise and bustle of Shephard s 
Hotel, and found a charming retreat in 
the Hotel Yilla Victoria. This hotel is 
situated in the most beautiful part of 
Cairo, not far from the Ezbekiyeh Gar 
dens, and is surrounded on all sides by 
fine and newly built mansions. It com 
prises three separate buildings which 
form three sides of a quadrangle, in the 
centre of which is a charming garden. 
Here are pleasant walks, shaded by huge 
palm, and orange trees laden with ripe 
fruit ; one of the latter looked tempting 
ly into Mr. Stanley s working-room. In 
the centre is a fountain surrounded by 
tropical and oriental plants, and the an 
tics of a monkey tied to a tree give va 
riety to the scene. The landlord of this 
hotel seems to fully appreciate the 
charms of his surroundings. How or 
when he conducts his business is a mys 
tery. To me it seemed that most of his 
time was spent lolling luxuriously in a 
hammock, smoking a cigarette, or, for 
exercise, mildly swaying himself back 
ward and forward on a rope swing or 
reclining and complacently dozing in a 
bower under a canopy of yellow sweet- 
scented roses. Life to him appeared 
like a pleasant dream. He reminded me 
of Tennyson s "mild-eyed, melancholy 
Lotos-eaters." 

" With half -shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream." 

A sharp contrast to this lazy, happy 
lounger was the toiler in the room whose 
open windows looked out over a trellis 
of roses and ripe mandarins, on this 
idle garden, where doves and gray- 
backed crows were familiar visitors. I 
must, however, do this good landlord 
the justice of saying that, notwithstand 
ing the easy enjoyment he seems to get 
out of his life, his hotel is admirably 
managed. It is charmingly furnished 
throughout, the living is very good, the 
bedrooms are lofty, airy, and well looked 
after in every respect. 

It was in that part of the hotel far 
thest removed from the street that Mr. 
Stanley took up his abode. Here he 



had a fine suite of rooms on the ground 
floor, very handsomely furnished in the 
oriental style. . A large, lofty reception- 
room and an equally large and hand 
some dining-room. In these he received 
some of the most important or most per 
sistent of his many callers ; but as a rule 
he shut himself up in his bedroom, and 
there he wrote from early morning till 
late at night, and woe betide anyone 
who ventured unasked into this sanctum. 
He very rarely went out, even for a stroll 
round the garden. His whole heart and 
soul were centred on his work. He had 
set himself a certain task, and he had 
determined to complete it to the exclu 
sion of every other object in life. He 
said of himself, "I have so many pages 
to write. I know that if I do not com 
plete this work by a certain time, when 
other and imperative duties are imposed 
upon me, I shall never complete it at 
all. When my work is accomplished, 
then I will talk with you, laugh with 
you, and play with you, or ride with you 
to your heart s content ; but let me alone 
now, for Heaven s sake." 

Nothing worried him more than a tap 
at the door while he was writing ; he 
sometimes glared even upon me like a 
tiger ready to spring, although I was 
of necessity a frequent and privileged 
intruder, and always with a view to for 
warding the work in hand. He was a per 
fect terror to his courier and black boy. 
When his courier knocked tremblingly 
at his door, he would cry out, " Am I a 
prisoner in my own house ? " " I ve 
brought you this telegram, sir." " Well, 
I detest telegrams ; why do you persist 
in bringing them ? " 

Sali, the black boy who travelled with 
him throughout his long and peril 
ous expedition, is a youth of some re 
source. Until this terrible book had 
got into his master s brain he had been 
accustomed to free access to him at all 
hours ; but now things were different ; 
every time he approached the den, the 
least thing he expected was that the ink 
stand would be thrown at his head. He 
no longer ventured therein. One day he 
originated a new wa t y of saving his head ; 
he had a telegram to deliver, so he in 
geniously fixed it on the end of a long 
bamboo, and getting the door just ajar, 
he poked it into the room and bolted. 



212 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



At luncheon and dinner Mr. Stanley 
was quite another man. He and I and 
his secretary generally messed together ; 
occasionally a friend dropped in. Mr. 
Stanley is himself extremely abstemious. 
He drinks nothing but about a table- 
spoonful of brandy in a glass of water, 
and in this respect he is somewhat forget 
ful of his friends. One evening a friend 
came in to dinner, and we sat for about 
two hours smoking and listening to his 
stories, but it never once occurred to 
him to ask his friend to take anything 
with his cigar. At length his guest, who 
was growing thirsty, asked him before 
leaving if he might have a little whiskey 
and soda. "My dear fellow," said he, 
" why did you not ask for it before ? I 
never once thought of it. I ask your 
pardon ! " I frequently remonstrated 
with him for passing dish after dish 
without touching them. His invariable 
reply was, " How can I eat and work ? 
You know well that yonder are several 
pages for me to complete before I sleep." 
"But," I replied, "you are killing your 
self, it is quite impossible for the strong 
est constitution to stand such a strain 
as this ; when I came here ten days ago, 
you seemed to me to be in the most ro 
bust health ; already I notice a differ 
ence in you ; you complain of sundry 
aches and pains ; beware of your old 
enemy, gastric fever ! " His reply to 
this was, " Ah ! but the book ! the book 
must be done." 

On the day after my arrival Dr. Parke 
called and urged him, for his health s 
sake, to go out for a drive with him ; but 
he steadily refused to move out of his 
room. 

One day I did succeed in getting him 
out for half an hour. We walked down 
to get a glimpse of the Nile. The air 
was sufficiently cool to be invigorating ; 
it did him good. After contemplating 
the river for a few seconds he re 
marked, " Eight months ago I drank its 
waters at its eastern source, which I 
discovered years ago. On my recent 
expedition I discovered its western 
source in the no longer fabulous Moun 
tains of the Moon that source water 
must have taken almost as long to travel 
here as I have done. Now that you have 
discovered the mouth let us go back to 
work." Except to dine out once or 



twice in the evening, he was only once 
more outside the garden during my stay. 

I may say that my own life while in 
Cairo was not one of indolence or leis 
ure. I never worked more incessantly 
in my life, for I had determined not to 
leave Cairo without a very large propor 
tion of the complete manuscript, and 
the whole of the sketches and maps in 
my portmanteau. First, there were 
Stanley s photographs to be developed 
by a local photographer, in order that 
we might see how they would come out. 
It is needless to say that these negatives, 
taken with infinite care, by Stanley him 
self, of scenes all through the journey, 
were regarded by him and by me with 
the utmost jealousy. I therefore took 
upon myself to watch the whole process 
from beginning to end, and I never lost 
sight of these precious negatives till I 
carried them back to the hotel. Alas ! 
I am sorry to say that many of the pict 
ures had almost disappeared from the 
glass, and at best could only serve to 
suggest valuable hints to our artist 
these had been over-exposed or not 
sufficiently exposed in the blazing sun 
of the tropics ; others I was delighted 
to find come out quite clearly, and rep 
resent scenes of the greatest value, ar 
tistically and geographically, as well as 
conveying accurate types of new races 
in the interior. 

Again, knowing that I should have to 
convey with me a manuscript of very 
great value, which, if lost in transit, 
would not merely be a loss to myself but 
to a world of readers anxiously waiting 
for it, I determined to have a second 
copy made of the whole. One copy I 
determined to carry with me, and the 
other to send forward registered to Lon 
don, in a separate trunk. 

To accomplish this I obtained and set 
up a copying press in the secretary s 
room, but as much of Stanley s manu 
script before I reached him had not 
been written in copying-ink, that por 
tion I copied out myself, and for the re 
mainder I worked away several hours at 
the copying-press, and obtained in this 
way about four hundred folios. 

Mr. Stanley s memory of names, per 
sons, and events is quite marvellous, but 
in the compilation of his book he by no 
means trusted to his memory. His con- 




VOL. VIII. 21 



214 



HOW STANLEY W ROTE HIS BOOK. 



stant habit was to carry a small note 
book 6x3 inches in his side-pocket : in 
this he pencilled notes constantly and 
at every resting-place. Of these note 
books he has shown me six of about one 
hundred pages each, closely packed with 
pencil memoranda. These notes, at 



was spending the winter in Cairo ; and 
the operation was one in which the 
great traveller evidently took great 
pleasure. I am not sure, however, that 
he was regarded by Miss Meyrick as a 
model sitter. The painting had been 
commissioned by Sir George Elliot, 
and was destined for the rooms 
of the Koyal Geographical So 
ciety of London. The portrait 
is life-size and nearly full length, 
a defect in my humble opinion, 




Sali s Device for Delivering Telegrams. 



times of longer leisure, were expanded 
into six larger volumes of about two hun 
dred pages each of very minute and 
clear writing in ink. I send you fac 
similes of two pages from one of these 
journals. In addition to these field 
note-books and diaries, there are two 
large quarto volumes, filled from cover 
to cover with calculations of astronom 
ical observations, etc. 

One of the few diversions from the 
constant labor on his book in which Mr. 
Stanley indulged during my residence 
with him was sitting for his portrait to 
Miss E. M. Meyrick, a student and silver 
medallist of the Royal Academy, who 



as it terminates abruptly below the 
knees, and I could see no good reason 
why the feet should not have been in 
cluded ; as it is the legs and the iron- 
shod staff have the look of being ab 
ruptly cut off. Apart from this, which 
may be very inartistic criticism, the por 
trait struck me as being a remarkably 
good and life-like one. 

Another diversion, or rather distrac 
tion, from his work was the necessary 
attention he had to give to the artist 
whom I had taken with me for the pur 
pose of making working drawings for 
the various artists to be employed on 
the illustrations. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



215 



^ 



/ /4.a-4jc<.t+ f &-*-*. 6-^^ 





A Page from Stanley s Journal. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



217 



Mr. Joseph Bell was an admirable were very good friends, but Stanley 
sketcher, fertile in suggestion, and quick could not endure the torture for more 
at taking hints and notes, but somehow than two hours a day, and he always 




Stanley and Joseph Bell, the Artist, Preparing Sketches. 



he always managed to irritate Stanley 
by what may be called his excessive ver 
bosity, and the mischievous delight he 
always took in endeavoring to land 
Stanley on the horns of some dilemma. 
For example, he got him to describe the 
method of getting a donkey across a 
deep river. Stanley explained to him 
how the porter led the donkey into the 
stream, holding the bridle and keeping 
the donkey s head (which was alone visi 
ble) out of the water, with one hand, 
and swimming vigorously with the other 
hand. " Yes," said Bell ; " did the 
porter carry a rifle ? " " Of course," 
said Stanley. "Yes," says Bell, "and 
in which hand did he carry the rifle, 
seeing that one hand is already engaged 
in guiding and helping the donkey, and 
the other in swimming for dear life ? " 
This was a sort of fun which Stanley did 
not appreciate. On the whole they 



rose from the encounter with a sigh of 
relief and a wish that it was all over. 

As regards the illustrations in his 
book, Mr. Stanley does not pretend to 
be an artist, but during his whole jour 
ney, and even under the most peri 
lous conditions, he never failed to 
make rough notes and sketches, or 
photographs, of the most interesting 
scenes and events, and in this way he 
accumulated abundant material. Of 
course, they were not in all cases such 
as an artist could make a perfect picture 
from without the aid of Stanley s accurate 
memory and vivid power of description. 

The illustrations which accompany 
this article were obtained by Mr. Bell 
for this special purpose. In order to 
insure accuracy of detail, I obtained for 
him Mr. Stanley s sanction to take a 
photograph of every scene ; and these 
photographs have greatly assisted him. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



219 



Among the celebrities who called upon Mr. Stanley was Zebehr Pasha, the 
great Soudan slave-dealer, of whom Gordon had such a high opinion that he 
urged the government to appoint him as his successor at Khartoum, in 1883-84. 
He remained some time chatting with Stanley. 

It is needless to say that every mail brought Stanley shoals of letters from 
all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children, and from all parts of the 
world ; and his courier was besieged by numbers of total strangers ready to 
bribe him to any extent if only he could arrange for them to get even a glance at 
him. 

One day an Austrian enthusiast called and sent in a polite note asking Stanley 
to fix a time when he might bring forty of his compatriots 
with him, all anxious for the opportunity of shaking him 
by the hand. This astute gentleman accompanied his re 
quest by a very handsomely mounted cigar-case as a 
souvenir. This elegant little present obtained for the 
persevering stranger a brief interview for himself, but 
the hand-shaking of his forty friends could not pos 
sibly be entertained. 

It has unfortunately happened that notwith 
standing the immense number of letters received, 
the practice has generally been to destroy them 
after brief acknowledgment, otherwise I should 
have had a very rich assortment placed at my 
disposal ; as it is, I am permitted to make a 
few extracts from the letters received by 
one or two of the last mails, which had 
not yet been consigned to oblivion. 

The first I quote from is one that 
touches me personally, it comes from 
the United States. 



Don t let the publisher* or the Lecture Bureau 
chaps worry you almost to death, simply be 
cause the world wants to know more fully, 
and by next week if possible, what you have 
done. 



I am bound to admit the wisdom of 
these words. 

Here is a charming little letter from 
a small school-girl in Wales : 



DEAR MR. STANLEY: 

I have been very much interested in hearing 
about your travels in Africa, and should very 
much like to read your book, as I am sure it 
would be very interesting. I would much 
rather read about a geographical hero than a 
historical one. It was very kind of you to go 
through such perils to rescue Emiii Pasha. 
I liked so much to hear of your fighting against 
the dwarfs, and should like to see one very 
much ; they must look so funny, being so small. 

I am a little school-girl at school, and I am 

eleven years old. I am very fond of geography, 

and am always longing to go round the world. 

I remain 

Your little friend, 

G. E. 




Sali, negro servant of Stanley throughout the Expedition, 
and at Cairo. 



220 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



Another enthusiast hailing from 
America asks for Mr. Stanley s 0/6? cap. 

Right glad am I that you are once more in a 
civilized country. I have carefully watched 
your proceedings from the time you discov 
ered Livingstone. You (ire a brick ! Now, if 
you are inclined to sell the cap you wore through 
Africa, I am prepared to give you a fancy price 
for it, to add to my collection of curiosities ; it 
shall be preserved in a glass case with your 
name on same. 

A firm of tobacconists makes the fol 
lowing cool request : 

Will you kindly accord us your gracious per 
mission to append your noble name, and your 
photograph (might we ask for your autograph ?) 
to a iirst-class quality of cigar and cigarette, 
made by ourselves from the best and finest to 
bacco, etc. 

A photographer writes : 

SIR : Pray excuse the liberty taken by a 
stranger in approaching you at a time when 
your hands and mind must be so full, but since 
to satisfy the demands of an admiring public 
some one must claim the proud position of per 
forming the task I covet, that of executing a 
portrait, etc. 

A poetical soldier in Cairo says : 

I humbly beg you will kindly accept the 
enclosed few simple lines from a soldier. I 
am no poet, but have expressed myself as well 
as possible, etc. 

Mr. S. replied kindly to this, and has 
made the Cairo soldier very proud. 

The following letter is from an old 
acquaintance of the Pocock days : 

DEAR SIR : Please to excuse me for the lib 
erty I have taken in writing to you, but in 
knowing you, an taking a very great enterest 
in you treavels, I congrelatue you on your safe 
return, hoping you may long live to Injoy you 
ealth and hapness for your labours. I have 
always taken great entrest in yours travels 
ever since we meet at Zanzibar. ... I 
ham the man that don your boat when the 
Pocock Brothers was with you and I should like 
a few lines from you, as I should like them 
put in our papers here, etc. 

Mr. Stanley was no stranger to me 
when I first arrived here. My whole ex 
perience of him, during my nearly three 
weeks residence with him, most fully 
confirmed the opinion I have always 



held, through good report and evil re 
port, for the last eighteen years. That 
he is the greatest explorer of modern 
times will scarcely be gainsaid by his 
bitterest enemies ; but beyond the pos 
session, in an unusual degree, of the 
qualifications for a successful explorer, 
it is impossible to live long with him in 
the intimacy in which I have lived with 
out discovering in him many other of 
the characteristics which go to make a 
good and great man, a ruler of men. 
His conversation, frequently impas 
sioned, was always elevated and pure, 
carrying with it the conviction of truth 
fulness and earnestness of purpose ; his 
conception of duty high and noble ; 
his scorn of everything sordid and mean 
strong and withering ; he is truthful and 
sincere, and without a tinge of envy 
or malice. He is generous, even lavish 
in his gifts ; notwithstanding his iron 
will his heart is as tender as a child s. 
That his mind is imbued with a reveren 
tial belief in an over-ruling Providence 
is constantly exhibited in his conversa 
tion. 

"I am not," said he, "what is called 
superstitious. I believe in God, the 
creator of the Universe . . . Many 
forms of belief and curious ideas respect 
ing the great mystery of our being and 
creation have been suggested to me dur 
ing my life and its wanderings, but after 
weighing each and attempting to under 
stand what must be unsearchable, my 
greatest comfort has been in peacefully 
resting firm in the faith of my sires. For 
all the human glory that surrounds the 
memory of Darwin and his wise com 
peers throughout advanced Europe, I 
would not abate a jot or tittle of my be 
lief in the Supreme God and that Divine 
man called his Son." 

In the existence of supernatural agen 
cies, and judging by the story of " Ran 
dy and the Guinea Fowl," which he 
related in his recent article, it is evident 
that miracles presented no stumbling- 
block to him. 

He is certainly not immaculate. I have 
seen and known something of his strong 
and passionate nature, but I have read 
in this book something, too, of his won 
derful self-control under the most trying 
circumstances in which a man could be 
placed. Take him for all in all, I think 



222 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



it may well be said of him that he does 
not make the high place he has reached 



" A lawless perch. 

Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but through all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a Blameless Life." 



I bade adieu to Mr. Stanley on the 
third of March, with my portmanteau 
stuffed with manuscripts, glass negatives, 
and maps. I reached London on the llth, 
and on the 14th I was enabled, by the 



activity of the printers, to despatch to 
him first proofs of nearly the whole of 
the first volume. 

He worked at his manuscript with as 
much ardor as when (to quote Gerald 
Massey) : 

"He strode o er streams and mountains, 

To free the leaguered band ; 
He stood by Nile s far fountains, 

Lord of the old Dark Land ! 
Where Death the forest haunted, 

And never dawned the day, 
He pierced the gloom undaunted, 

For that was Stanley s way." 




Stanley Dictating to His Secretary. 



I 




THE SEASON S BOON. 

By G. Melville Upton. 

WHEN all the swooning air is stilled at noon, 
And quiet shadows gather in the glade, 
Then drowsy locusts sing within the shade 

Sing praise of summer and the days of June ; 

And spiders, thankful for the season s boon, 

Throw their light webs across the sky, all stayed 
With strongest ties, of shining silver made 

To bind the wings that wander neath the moon. 



DECLINE AND FALL. 

By Annie Eliot. 



" DEAR FRANCES : 

"I am here. That has often the air 
of a self-evident statement ; believe me, 
in this case, it is not one. When I 
climbed out of the stage last week, 
after being jolted and precipitated and 
playfully tossed and caught again for 
twenty miles or so, it was a matter for 
serious doubt whether I was all here or 
not. But I think I am all essential 
parts of me, at least. There are certain 
airs and graces which a too censorious 
world considers essential parts of me 
which I have left behind somewhere on 
the road. Never mind, I shall un 
doubtedly find them on the way back ; 
they are not the sort of property to 
tempt the rustic of the region to appro 
priation. In fact, I may as well make 
a clean breast of it, for you will be sure 
to find it out. I am at present having 
an accds of simplicity true, unassumed, 
unpicturesque simplicity simplicity 
without any arriere pensee whatever. 
It seems to me that I have longed for 
this opportunity all my life to be en 
tirely natural, without giving a thought 
to how my being so was going to affect 
anybody. It is not only that I eat when 
I am hungry and go to bed when I am 
tired, and sit still when I ve a mind, 
but it has reached my mental attitude 
too. I don t anticipate or plan, and I 
don t see why anybody should. I know 
what you ll say that it is just another 
spell of feeling the hollowness well, 
perhaps it is ; I know that same old 
emotion turns up in all sorts of forms. 
Or it may be that the air is beginning 
to exert the beneficial effect the doctor 
says it possesses. 

" The mistress of the house I mean 
the two mistresses of the house are 
amusing, in fact, likable. They are both 
little, gray -haired, widowed women, 
only one is littler, grayer-haired, and, I 
dare say, more widowed than the other. 
They are decidedly women of their 
world, only it reaches each of them in a 
different way. The one to whom I have 
hitherto applied the comparative degree 
VOL. VIII. -23 



is also the younger, and it is she that 
has the imagination. It is an imagina 
tion that has never been developed by 
circumstances, but to her what is emo 
tional or abstract or picturesque ap 
peals. I am clever to have found this 
out, because it is difficult to recognize 
the emotional or the abstract or the 
picturesque in the mass of detail with 
which she cumbers her narrative, but I 
have found it out. The other one has a 
burning interest though sometimes 
quenched by the ice-water of New Eng 
land reticence in purely material ques 
tions. Where do I get my clothes ? I 
think that is about the most satisfacto 
ry subject with her. I tell her, and then 
I feel snubbed because she has never 
heard of the places. But she rolls them 
afterward as sweet morsels under her 
tongue, which is something of a conso 
lation. Have I been unnecessarily de 
tailed in my description ? Well, that is 
the extent of my social environment, 
unless you count the people who come 
over now and then with supplies, with 
whom I always exchange a word or two 
from the front steps that is part of 
the simplicity, you understand. Oh, 
yes, there is one other he is a supply 
himself of the pulpit in the Centre, 
four miles from us. Now, I see you 
smile. At last, you say, we have come 
to the human interest. No, really, 
Frances you know I would not hesi 
tate to tell you if it were, but let me 
convince you. He lives in the only 
other house in this part of the country 
boards there, while he preaches for 
the summer in the aforesaid pulpit. So 
much in favor of your theory, I admit. 
He is good-looking quite but with an 
expression that betokens too much con 
fidence in life s being a pleasant thing 
you know the kind--a little trusting, 
if anything ; which circumstance, fully 
considered, cannot be said to be for or 
against. But listen. I have heard him 
preach ; I have met him once. He is 
narrow, opinionated, the plain, unvar 
nished product of a theological seminary 



226 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



of the most orthodox proclivities. Need 
I say more ? He has all the disadvan 
tages of the unfledged of every kind, 
with the added hinderance of profound 
conviction that he has Divine warrant 
for ignorance a special outgrowth of 
this variety. Were the magnificent, 
broad, intellectual clergymen that you 
and I so much admire ever incased in 
this sort of shell, I wonder ! I feel 
that I have placed the Reverend Alfred 
Neal above suspicion. 

" Write to me, dear, and I will con 
tinue to tell you about my simplicity. 
"Yours always, 

"BETTY." 

Miss Everard laid down her pen and 
sought in her portfolio for an envelope. 
Then she took up her letter and read it 
hastily through. " Betty ! " she said to 
herself, as she folded and addressed it to 
Miss Waring, " that is not a name to be 
bestowed under a republican govern 
ment. It ought to have Lady before 
it, and then it suggests powder and 
plumes and patches. Lady Betty ! 
How pretty she would be in a ruff and 
high red-heeled shoes ! " She had risen 
while she soliloquized, and, placing her 
stamped and sealed letter upon her 
dressing-table, she glanced in the mir 
ror. "But just plain Betty! Well, 
perhaps not hopelessly plain Betty 
and she smiled calmly at her own re 
flection, "but unpowdered, unplumed, 
unpatched, nineteenth-century Betty 
that is highly inappropriate." 

She sauntered indolently to the small 
window and looked across at the pine- 
woods, whose fragrant, spicy breath 
came into the room below the slightly 
raised sash. It was one of those win 
dows to open which demands strength 
which is as the strength of ten, and 
which, when opened, refuse to be 
closed again save with the velocity and 
archaic force of a battering-ram. " I 
have been used," pondered Miss Ever 
ard, with that volatility which comes 
with the accomplishment of a definite 
duty, " to windows which remained 
up without visible means of support. 
Since I came to Kenyon s I have learned 
better. It seems to me that one vol 
ume of Roman history and a hair-brush 
don t keep that window up high enough." 



She gazed idly round the room. "I 
guess one of my second-best slippers 
will about do it," and she inserted that 
bit of personal property, with no mean 
skill, so that the high heel raised the 
window two or three inches farther. 
" That isn t much," she concluded, 
somewhat warm with the effort, " but 
it is something. How delicious that 
pine-fragrance is ! " and she bent her 
head so that her little nose drew in 
long breaths of the sweet air through 
the opening. Then she walked over 
again to the dressing-table, took down 
a broad hat which hung at one side, 
and, picking up her letter, went slowly 
out of the room. At the door she 
paused and looked back. 

" I suppose that window will come 
down," she soliloquized, still idly, " and 
grind that slipper and the hair-brush to 
powder. Nevermind. Home can stand 
it and they must have hair-brushes 
over at the Centre. " There was an 
inconsequence in whatever she did 
which was itself a conscious charm for 
her in her life here. It was a delight 
ful sense, this of having no duties, of 
being able to saunter from table to win 
dow and back again, to put on her hat, 
and make stop-gaps of useful informa 
tion when she chose, after the hurry, 
social, intellectual, and physical, of the 
last five years. 

On the wide door-stone, in two little 
chairs, sat Mrs. Mint and Mrs. Thrum. 
It demanded a trained faculty of obser 
vation to immediately recognize the 
fact that these two chairs were just 
alike. It struck most people, as it had 
struck Miss Everard, that they were 
totally unlike, and it was only after 
coming across them several times when 
they were empty that one perceived 
that it was the.figures of their usual oc 
cupants which imparted this air of dis 
tinct dissimilarity. Now, for instance, 
Mrs. Thrum s was an alert, inquisitive, 
somewhat self-willed rocking-chair, as 
she sat on the edge and tipped it for 
ward to the extreme limit of equilib 
rium ; when it went back it flew back 
suddenly as if only to take breath for 
another prolonged pause in its con 
strained position on the front end of 
the rocker. As for Mrs. Mint s, hers 
was a calm, even-tempered, mildly au- 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



227 



thoritative chair. It moved slowly 
back and forth, and asserted itself no 
further than by way of gentle accom 
paniment to the statements made from 
its depths. Except now and then when 
there was a pause, then it furnished 
suggestions of its own, its slow, regu 
lar motion conveying to all intelligent 
minds the assurance that the world 
went on just about as well whether we 
looked after it or not, and there was no 
use in being uncomfortable. 

"Mrs. Thrum," said Miss Everard s 
clear voice in the hall, " shall I leave my 
letter here on the table ? or is it too 
late for the butcher?" 

"Land, yes!" said Elvira Thrum. 
"He was here before you was up." 

"But Edward hasn t been from the 
store, Elvira," suggested her sister. 

"No, and he won t be here till he 
thinks I ve forgot that he brought me 
cream o tartar and labelled it salera- 
tus," replied Elvira, somewhat grimly. 

" I don t know as he will," assented 
Mrs. Mint. Betty sauntered to the 
door and leaned against the side, with 
the letter still in her hand, pending the 
discussion of its chances. Both the 
little old women turned and looked up 
at her. 

" Perhaps there ll be somebody along 
from the other house, 5 hazarded Ca 
milla, " on the way to Centre. You 
might stick it in the railing in case 
anybody is." 

"Are those cherries artificial?" in 
quired Elvira. 

" Cherries ? " said Betty. " Oh, yes, 
very artificial indeed," and she put up 
her hand and pinched one of the red 
ornaments of her hat. 

" I wouldn t wonder," continued Ca 
milla, rocking to and fro, her hands 
folded in her lap, " but what Mr. Neal 
would be going on down this morning. 
He calls on old Miss Stiff pretty regu 
lar." 

" Did you buy them on it ? " asked 
Elvira. 

" Er yes I think I did," answered 
Betty, " and yet, I m not sure perhaps 
I saw them somewhere no, I m sure 
they were on it." Her anxiety to please 
made her almost painfully conscien 
tious. 

"She says he s a great comfort to 



her. He s so positive in his faith," com 
mented Mrs. Mint, with satisfaction. 

" I suppose you most always buy em 
ready made," asserted Mrs. Thrum. 

" Yes," said Betty, conscious that this 
proceeding would have its objection, " it 
is more convenient, you know, and you 
can tell " 

"All the faith I could ever see that 
old Miss Stiff had," interrupted Elvira, 
as her rocking-chair flew back once and 
then forward again, where it remained 
poised, "was that all the people that 
didn t agree with her d get come up 
with." 

" Something like David," remarked 
Camilla. 

" I don t know as Mr. Neal d get 
along any too well with David," said El 
vira, with a certain amount of irrele 
vance. "I got my last bonnet ready 
made, and it looked like a peck-measure 
when I got it home." 

" They look very differently when one 
gets them home," answered Betty. 

She stood smiling down on her two di 
minutive companions as she spoke, tap 
ping her belated letter against her small 
white teeth, her dainty yellow gown 
turned away at the throat, where the 
cream-colored embroidery was caught 
together with a gold pin, the only orna 
ment she wore. Then she raised her 
eyes and glanced up the road. 

" Suppose I should walk over to Cen 
tre myself," she suggested. The gate 
of the " other house," the one just be 
yond the bend of the road, creaked as 
it was pulled open. They could always 
hear that gate creak. Camilla turned 
and looked up the road. 

"Here comes Mr. Neal now," she 
said, placidly. Betty did not change 
her position as she watched the young 
man come briskly toward them, but her 
smile grew more amused. He was quite 
conscious of the scrutiny he was under 
going, and as he raised his hat, just op 
posite the door, his face was flushed 
and he spoke with an embarrassed lit 
tle laugh. 

" Good - morning, ladies," he said. 
" Can I be of any service ? I am going 
to the Centre." 

He was a tall man, too slight for his 
height ; his clothes were evidently care 
fully put on, and his expression was 



228 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



somewhat provokingly amiable, as Betty 
had hinted to Miss Waring. His man 
ner and appearance indicated that some 
what uneasy consciousness of externals 
which, by some apparent in justice, seems 
to be a part of those who, it is conceded, 
are specially occupied with the hidden 
and the vital. He looked at Betty as 
he spoke, as most men would have done 
in his place, and, meeting her gay little 
nod of greeting, immediately turned his 
eyes away and looked questioningly at 
Elvira and Camilla. He even contrived 
to convey a slight shade of disapproval 
in the way in which he did this. Pos 
sibly her smile and nod were too gay ; 
possibly, in spite of their gayety, they 
were too indifferent, too suggestive of 
this person s proneness to take life eas 
ily, and to consider morning meetings 
with young clergymen as destitute of 
any profound importance. 

"Did you sit up with Mr. Thomas 
last night ? " asked Elvira. 

"Yes, I did," he replied, with solem 
nity. 

" Did he die in the night ? " she asked, 
quickly, before Camilla could speak. 

" Oh, no, he s better this morning." 

" Is ? " Perhaps there was a shade of 
disappointment in this observation, but 
not more than was entirely natural. 

" The Thomases always had rheumatic 
fever as a family," said Camilla. " Reu 
ben Thomas s father had it twice. I 
said to him once, it was when we lived, 
my husband and I, in Whitney, that 
was before my husband went into busi 
ness with his brother and we had the 
little house that set back from the street, 
and Pelatiah, that s Reuben Thomas s 
father, used to drive by every day 
with " Elvira s rocking chair had hung 
fire long enough. "Here s Miss Ever- 
ard," she said, "talking about walking 
over to Centre herself." 

Camilla looked at her sister with mild 
reproof, but met no glance of apology. 
Elvira was looking at Mr. Neal and re 
volving another question. Neal had 
not raised his eyes to Betty s a second 
time, but, as he listened respectfully to 
the sisters, he was conscious to his fin 
ger-tips that she was watching him from 
the vantage of the threshold, with that 
same tantalizing little smile. Elvira s 
remark necessitated his addressing her. 



" Can I will you " he began, looking 
up and stammering a little in his em 
barrassment. She waited a moment, 
but he did not finish his sentence. The 
day was warm and damp, and his hair, a 
trifle longer than fashion demands, had 
curled into little rings about his fore 
head, giving him a very boyish look. 

" How nice to have your hair curl 
like that," she said. "Just nothing but 
the w r eather ! " 

The soul of the Reverend Alfred Neal 
quivered with resentful confusion, but 
he found no words with which to assert 
his dignity, and grew scarlet under the 
mocking brightness of Betty s sweet 
smile. 

"Well, it is," said Mrs. Thrum. 
Neither she nor Mrs. Mint felt the in 
dignity. 

" Do you do yours with an iron ? " she 
went on, swiftly. 

" I ve given it up entirely," said Miss 
Everard, laughing. Then, meeting a 
look of scepticism from Elvira, she ad 
ded, " Oh, you mean in the back of my 
neck yes, with an iron." 

"I mean in the back of your neck," 
said Elvira. 

During the conversation the Reverend 
Alfred Neal grew warmer and warmer. 
It seemed to him to more than verge on 
indelicacy. It was not the sort of thing 
that men of his cloth should listen to. 
And yet, when Mrs. Thrum finished her 
last sentence, to save his life he could 
not prevent his eyes from a hasty 
glance at the back of Miss Everard s 
head, where a small blond, fluffy curl 
made itself seen below the rim of her 
hat. Unfortunately he also met her 
eyes, and there was that in their mali 
cious depths that worsted him yet fur 
ther. Then their expression changed 
utterly. She stepped down, and held 
out her letter. 

" Will you mail it for me ? " she said, 
gravely. " I shall be very much 
obliged." And lifting her delicate 
skirt with one hand, and with a nod of 
farewell, she passed down from the 
piazza to the gate, so near that her dress 
touched him, and, crossing the road, 
turned into the cool pine- woods just be 
low. Alfred Neal went on his way to 
the village in a state of mind not alto 
gether well regulated. He was a little 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



229 



vexed, a trifle shocked, and a good deal 
embarrassed. A course of reflection, 
however, upon his own position and the 
transitory influence of a girl like Miss 
Everard restored his ordinary confident 
composure before he entered the main 
street of the Centre, where domestic 
commerce was represented by two stores, 
on the front piazza of each of which sat 
the proprietor in his shirt-sleeves, with 
his chair tipped back against the white- 
painted wall. 

Betty made her way over the slip 
pery pine-needles, until, with a steadi 
ness of purpose denoting a specific goal, 
she reached a tall pine-tree whose shaft 
went straight up, not bothering itself 
with branches, for thirty feet. Here she 
threw herself down and, removing her 
hat, leaned back in the embracing roots. 
The resinous bark gave forth its spicy 
smell. Hot as it was, there was a faint 
breeze which just kept up conversation 
in the tops of the pine-trees. Small and 
active insects went pottering about the 
moss and needles and soft earth. It 
was delicious. Betty drew a sigh of 
satisfaction, and pitied the people in 
towns. A faint smile touched her lips 
as she recalled Neal s expression in his 
first flush of annoyance at her imperti 
nence. 

" It did curl prettily," she said to her 
self, lazily stretching her arm over her 
head. " It made him almost debonair. 
Fancy the Reverend Alfred Neal debo 
nair ! He doesn t know what it means. 
Ho ! hum ! " she yawned. " Yes, I sup 
pose life is real, life is earnest. But I 
have to convince myself of it ; some peo 
ple are born believing it. They re just 
like that ant. They take life seriously 
and hurl themselves against obstacles 
without in the least knowing why," and 
Neal passed entirely out of Miss Ever- 
ard s consciousness in a mist of philoso 
phic speculation which was one of the 
privileges of Kenyon s. She never had 
time for it at home. 

It was high noon when Neal came 
back along the dusty high-road. As he 
drew near the two-house hamlet known 
as Kenyon s, he tore open a letter and 
began to read it. It was from a theo 
logical classmate who was settled in the 
small town where they had both been at 
college. He wrote with the freedom of 



a man sure of his audience, and among 
other things referred to a certain laxity 
of doctrine perceptible even in his own 
congregation as a part of the undoubted 
laxity of the age. " We have had enough 
of the doctrine of brotherly love," wrote 
this confident young preacher. " It is 
time to dwell on the other side. Bro 
therly love in these times of breadth 
and toleration will take care of itself. 
Heaven forbid that I should underrate 
its importance, but let you and me, Bro 
ther Neal, see to it that brotherly warn 
ing and argument also continue." 

Neal nodded his head as he read in 
warm acquiescence. It was a pity that 
so many preachers gifted of God were 
so prone to be over - lenient tow r ard the 
promptings of a personal devil. And 
he breathed a sigh, genuine and de 
voted, over the evils which it might 
lead to. There was not the slightest 
taint of hypocrisy in the soul of Alfred 
Neal ; he was single-minded and earnest. 
At the close of the letter his friend gave 
him an item or two of news. " Emily 
Grant asked about you the other day, 
and was interested to hear of your sum 
mer s work. She spends part of the 
summer in New Hampshire, whither she 
goes to-morrow." 

Alfred Neal folded the letter, put it in 
his pocket, and, crossing the road that 
he might be more in the shade of the 
over-reaching branches, betook himself 
again to meditation. Emily Grant ! She 
had been his companion in many of the 
harmless gayeties of the little town. On 
picnics he had often found himself at 
her side, and after the weekly sociable 
his forethought had usually provided 
her with an escort home. She was a 
pretty girl, with a sweet, yielding ex 
pression, and an inflexibility of opinion 
that would have done credit to an in 
quisitor. More than one whisper had 
reached young Neal s not ungratified 
ears regarding her innate suitability for 
the part of clergyman s wife. It is to 
be supposed that Emily s own ears had 
not been entirely unassailed by such 
suggestions, but she had never shown 
them anything but the most becoming 
indifference. When Neal left for this his 
first parochial experience in the wilds of 
Maine, they had parted with unemotional 
propriety and an unexpressed expecta- 



230 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



tion of meeting again, which, possibly, 
upon the part of one or the other, might 
be said to approximate to a determina 
tion. To - day, as he walked quickly 
along, his hat in his hand and the 
breeze ruffling still further those un- 
clerical rings of hair, the image of Em 
ily Grant, though unexceptionable in 
detail, had a certain colorlessness. An 
annoyed squirrel rustled suddenly at 
his right. He turned to watch, if might 
be, its rapid course along the pictu 
resque pathway of a broken, moss-grown, 
insufficient rail -fence. Caught by a 
glint of color, his eye wandered farther 
into the woods. At the base of the 
pine-tree, just visible from the lonely 
road, sat Miss Everard. The pale yel 
low of her dress blended with the wood 
browns and dusky greens about her, 
while the hot sunlight penetrating here 
and there made flecks of a still paler 
gold. She suggested a true butterfly 
of fashion, alighted for a moment in the 
flowerless recesses of the forest. She 
was reading, and his step did not star 
tle her into lifting her head. Alfred 
paused a moment. The insufficient 
fence had come to a sudden pause here, 
forcing the squirrel into a precipitate 
leap and leaving the way invitingly open 
into the solitude peopled by this har 
monious young person. The road was 
hot and dusty, the wood cool and fra 
grant, and Kenyon s dinner-hour was fif 
teen minutes off. Miss Everard seemed 
rendered peculiarly accessible by the sur 
render of the fence, and Neal turned and 
made his way up the slippery brown 
pathway. She raised her eyes and smiled 
in recognition. Now that he had come, 
he realized that he had no statement to 
make, and his conscientiousness led him 
to feel that the occasion demanded one. 
Evidently she was deficient in conscien 
tiousness, for she did not share his un 
easiness. 

" That is a nice root," she observed, 
pointing it out in a friendly way. " If 
you sit down a little lower you will find 
it makes a back, and there is a place for 
your arm too." 

Neal had not expected to sit down by 
her side. He had had a vague idea of 
standing and saying a few words to her. 
It seemed almost too sylvan to sit on 
the ground, in the lazy attitude her sug 



gestion indicated, and take part in a 
tete-a-tete. But his six-mile walk made 
the resting-place not uninviting, and he 
remembered that he had done the same 
thing at picnics without incurring se 
rious liabilities. Moreover, her man 
ner and w 7 ords were of a disarming sim 
plicity. 

"Did you bring me a letter?" she 
asked. 

"No, there were none for you." 

" Such is the faithlessness of friends." 

" Do you not expect too much from 
your friends ? " he ventured. 

"Undoubtedly I do. Everybody 
does. And then we all get disappointed, 
and begin over again." 

" Perhaps you should have said your 
nominal friends," he suggested, with 
good-humored tolerance. 

Miss Everard was unaccustomed to 
be told what she should have said. 

" Well, yes. What other kind are 
worth having? I don t care a pin for 
people who are your friends and are 
ashamed to be called so," she said, wil- 
fuUy. 

" That is not quite what I meant," he 
began, carefully. 

" Oh, meant ! " exclaimed Betty, throw 
ing her head back against the trunk of 
the tree and looking at him under her 
eyelashes. "What difference does it 
make what any of us mean ? " 

Such utter irrelevance was a novelty 
to Neal. His perplexity with the man 
ner gave him no time to ponder the au 
dacity of the matter. He experienced 
a shade of satisfaction that he had not 
stood up, after all ; he recognized dimly 
that the pulpit attitude would have put 
him still more at a disadvantage. 

" I I " he began. 

"Now, don t say," she interrupted, 
" that though it may not make any dif 
ference what / mean, you are glad to 
say it makes a great deal of difference 
what you mean ! " 

The very fact that any expression of 
this kind had been so far from his lips 
perplexed him the more. He envied the 
man who might have the presence of 
mind to answer her so. 

"Because it won t do any good. I 
suppose," she went on, curiously, " that 
is what you are always thinking of do 
ing people good." 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



231 



" I wish I was," he replied, honestly. 

" Now I like that in you," said Betty, 
her eyes softening, as she leaned for 
ward again, her hands lying clasped 
around her knee. " It is very interest 
ing." 

" It ought to be," he answered, " but 
it isn t always." He paused, frightened, 
feeling that he had made a dangerous 
betrayal. She did not seem at all 
shocked. 

"No, I suppose not," she answered. 
"But then, you know, nothing is al 
ways." 

This was not the form of consolation 
that he felt the occasion demanded, but 
whether it was the rest and the cool 
ness, or her words or her presence it 
self, his aroused conscientiousness al 
lowed itself to be soothed and he let his 
statement go undefended. 

"I had a letter this morning," he 
said, still under the influence of this 
sudden expansiveness, " from a friend 
who is more than a nominal one one 
whose friendship is a privilege indeed." 

" Ah ! " said Miss Everard. But be 
fore he had time to think this exclama 
tion irrelevant too, " And was it a nice 
letter ? " she questioned, with a smile. 

"Yes," he assented, with momentary 
hesitation at the insufficiency of the ad 
jective, " really, a precious letter." 

" Do you get one every day ? " in 
quired Betty, with friendly imperti 
nence. 

"Every day? Oh, no. He has a 
large parish and " 

"Oh!" said Betty again. "He s a 
man. Yes, go on." But her rapidly 
drawn conclusions and their modifica 
tions made it impossible for him for the 
moment to go on. It flashed across him 
what she had thought, and he paused 
and laughed in some embarrassment. 
He thought of Emily Grant, and he 
was alarmed to see how near he had un 
wittingly drawn to the reefs of senti 
ment. 

" That s all right," said Betty, com 
posedly, "he has a large parish 
and " 

"And he finds his time fully occu 
pied," concluded Neal, somewhat in 
effectively. Now that she had steered 
him safely off again he almost regretted 
that he had not dallied with the danger 



a little. He would have liked to have 
answered her that he was heart-whole 
Emily Grant being for the moment in 
abeyance and possibly have received 
some like acknowledgment from her. 

" You must have a great deal in com 
mon," she said. "That makes it so 
easy to write." 

" Yes," he answered. He saw her in 
tention to be sympathetic and interest 
ed, but did not find it so easy to take 
advantage of as at first. Emily Grant 
seemed to be in some inexplicable fash 
ion an intrusive influence. She waited 
a moment, and then she looked up into 
the tall tree-tops. 

"Isn t it nice," she said, "the trees 
and the dry ground and the warm sun ? 
Aren t you glad you are not a trilobite 
or a a some kind of a pod, you know, 
that lived before the earth was done ? " 
and she brought her lazy glance down 
to rest upon his. 

"Yes," he said, smiling, "I think I 
am." 

" They must have had such a stupid 
time," she commented, " poking round." 

He felt that her geological knowledge 
might be doubtful, but her imagination 
found a response in his own percep 
tions. 

" Yes," he said, " it is a distinct pleas 
ure to live to-day," and he, too, looked 
about him appreciatively. 

"And to live one must eat," said 
Betty, gayly, looking at a toy watch. 
" The dinner-hour of Kenyon s will be 
past when you swing that atrociously 
rusty gate. As for me, I shall be just 
in time. And we have such beautiful 
things to eat at our house, I wouldn t 
miss one of them ! " she asserted, greed 
ily. He followed her down the rough 
path and crossed with her the dusty 
road. When he left her at the gate he 
looked back at the morning interview as 
a time when he had not known her very 
well. As he entered Deacon Evans s, and 
knew from the clatter of knives and 
forks that they were at dinner, he won 
dered if his detention had been alto 
gether a profitable one. She was an 
attractive woman, to be sure, but Emily 
Grant would never have thought of 
bringing a member of the Christian 
ministry into even momentary compar 
ison with " some kind of a pod." 



232 



DECLINE AND FALL 



On a day of the next week Miss Ever- 
ard came into the sitting-room and 
found both rocking-chairs empty. It 
was a disappointment. It rained hard, 
and she had come down from her room 
after what was to her sedulous applica 
tion to the " Decline and Fall " though 
possibly to a student somewhat desul 
tory and she felt the need of relaxa 
tion. She wandered to the window and 
watched the chattering little puddles in 
the middle of the road, and the tops of 
the trees waving irresolutely against the 
sky. She bethought herself that rainy 
afternoons were not altogether dreary in 
the city. One could stay at home now 
and then, and someone might happen 
in for a cup of tea. The kitchen door 
opened and Camilla came in, and took 
her rocking-chair. 

" Oh, Mrs. Mint," said Betty, "I want 
to be entertained." 

"When I lived in Whitney," Camilla 
began Betty leaned her head against 
the wall, swinging one slippered foot, 
the other lying out of sight "I used 
to entertain a good deal. I remember 
once they were coming to our house to 
the sewing society. It wasn t the church 
society. I ll tell you just how it was. 
They used to do more talking than sew 
ing at the church society. My husband 
used to say to me, that was when he 
was alive, that we lived in Whitney, and 
he used to go in the evening, along with 
the other gentlemen, they always liked 
to have him come too I remember Mrs. 
Burns saying to me once that it was al 
ways a different sort of sewing society 
when Anise Mint came. My husband s 
name was Anise, and he had" a brother 
Cummin. Old Father and Mother Mint 
both of them had a liking for Bible 
names, and they said it always seemed 
providential their names being Mint and 
having just those two sons. They al 
ways spoke of them as my two sons 
Anise Mint and Cummin the sound 
of it sort of pleased them. My husband 
was a very lively man." 

The poignancy of Mrs. Mint s grief at 
the loss of this attractive consort had 
sufficiently passed away for her to dweh 1 
upon his qualities with calm apprecia 
tion. Her rocking-chair was moving 
back and forth in its usual contempla 
tive manner, with her two little hands 



resting on its arms. Betty nodded from 
time to time, and said, " Oh," "Yes," 
and " Indeed," when occasion demanded 
it, which was not often. 

" He used to say about the church sew 
ing society that he made excuses to come 
at all sorts of times, but he had never 
struck it when they weren t just putting 
away the sewing. So there were some of 
us used to meet between times, those of 
us that were interested, and that was the 
one that was meeting at our house at 
the time I speak of. Mrs. Burns was 
the first to come 

Just here Elvira came into the room, 
and, taking possession of her own rock 
ing-chair observed : " Those hollyhock 
seeds aren t no manner of use." 

"And she said when she came that 
she didn t see why she hadn t run across 
young Mrs. Babbitt on her way over. 
She lived near her in the house that 
stood at the end of the green, and it was 
burned afterward, and they couldn t get 
the insurance. It had run out just the 
week before." 

"I got em of Amelia Thomas," said 
Mrs. Thrum. "She told me they 
blossomed most any time. I planted 
them along in the spring and they 
haven t blossomed yet, and I guess they 
don t mean to. Is that a photograph of 
your sister that stands alongside of 
your mirror ? " 

"Yes," answered Betty, "my older 
sister." 

"Married?" 

" Oh, yes, and lives in " 

" I was trying to tell her about the 
time that " began Mrs. Mint. 

" Where did you say she lived ? " asked 
Mrs. Thrum. 

"In Cleveland." 

" Does ? " 

" That Mrs. Babbitt committed sui 
cide," concluded Mrs. Mint. 

" Suicide ! " exclaimed Betty. 

" Yes," replied Mrs. Mint, placidly, 
" that was the reason she didn t come. 
She d taken laudanum. They had two 
doctors ; old Doctor Norton, that lived 
in the next town, he happened to be 
driving through, and Dr. Bent called him 
in he was a young man and inexpe 
rienced. My husband said 

" There is Mr. Neal," said Mrs. Thrum ; 
" I shouldn t wonder if he was coming 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



233 



over here. Land ! lie hasn t any um 
brella. I guess something s happened. 
He looks sort of hurried." 

Betty leaned forward and looked out 
of the window. Mr. Neal did seem hur 
ried. He was running as fast as he 
could through the driving rain, and 
along the muddy road. 

"You don t suppose anybody s com 
mitted suicide, do you ? " asked Betty, 
with some apprehension. 

" I guess anybody over there hasn t," 
said Mrs. Thrum, decidedly. "Caleb 
Evans feels about dying as the wicked 
man did about the resurrection it ll 
come soon enough, anyhow." 

She stepped to the door, leaving her 
rocking - chair to fly back and forth 
wildly, while Mrs. Mint tipped hers a 
little forward and waited. Betty rose 
too, and went to the door, looking over 
Mrs. Thrum s shoulder. It really seemed 
as if there was to be an event. 

" Oh, Mrs. Thrum," panted Neal, as he 
sprang up the low steps, "there has 
been an accident. Nat has had his arm 
badly cut in the cutting-machine. His 
father is away and there isn t anybody 
good for anything over there. Can one 
of vou come over while I run for the 
doctor ? " 

"Cut?" said Elvira. "Nat? Why, 
I ll come right over." 

"You don t go a step to-day, Elvira ! " 
said Mrs. Mint from the balanced rock 
ing-chair. "I don t propose to nurse 
you through rheumatic fever. I ll go 
myself," and she rose and came for 
ward. 

" Well, I guess you ll take some time 
to get ready," retorted Elvira, "so as 
you won t come down with pneumonia." 

"I ought to have thought of that," 
said Neal, and paused, dismayed, as he 
looked out at the driving storm. He 
knew perfectly well that both these old 
ladies were really invalids. But the 
case was so urgent even now it seemed 
to him the delay had been tremendous. 
As Mrs. Thrum spoke, Betty, with swift 
movement, had slipped by her, snatch 
ed a heavy shawl from the chair in 
the little entry and now stood by his 
side. 

"I ll go," she said, impatiently. 
" Come." 

He turned and looked at her, the 



shawl drawn over her dainty head, her 
face pale with fright. 

" You? " he said, doubtfully. 

" Yes," she answered. " Come, I say ! " 
and darted down from the sheltering 
porch into the heavy rain. 

" But " he began, as he followed her. 

"Land!" observed Elvira, "that ll 
be the end of that dress. Slippers, too. 
I wonder which arm it is he s cut." 

Camilla had already gone to her room 
to prepare to face the storm. 

"Get some bandages ready, quick, 
Elvira," she called out. 

"I m getting them," replied Elvira. 
"Did you think I thought it would do 
just as well to get them to-morrow ? " 

"Tell me what to do," Betty said. 
He did so in a few words. He had im 
provised a tourniquet and had stanched 
the bleeding for the present, but feared 
that it might break out afresh, and then 
it would be to do over again. 

" Yes," she said, " I understand ; " and 
they entered the Evans s house. The 
boy s mother was in a state of partial 
collapse from fright, but still held the 
arm as Mr. Neal had bidden her, look 
ing alarmingly white. The younger 
sister was shrieking, "Oh, Nat ll die, 
won t he ? " in the stimulating and en 
couraging manner peculiar to ungov- 
erned feminine anxiety. The boy him 
self, calm enough, lay on the floor, the 
stained bandages giving Betty one aw 
ful moment of sickening nervousness. 
But Alfred Neal, while he paused to see 
if this was going to do, did not perceive 
this ; he only saw her drop down on the 
floor, slip her hands about the wounded 
arm, telling the half-fainting woman to 
go away until she felt better, and, with 
a little smile of encouragement to the 
boy himself, introduce suddenly ele 
ments of order and relief. Then he 
dashed out a second time into the rain 
after the doctor. 

Insensibly, during the last week, his 
admiration for another sort of Betty 
had been growing, but now he carried 
with him a new impulse toward this 
pale, smiling young woman, w r ith firm, 
gentle fingers, who had tossed back her 
heavy shawl, and, with raindrops still 
hanging on her hair and little, soaked 
slippers, had calmly taken the position 
of ministering angel. Possibly a min- 



234 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



istering angel might have chosen other 
language to express Miss Everard s next 
idea. 

"You little idiot," she observed to 
the irresponsible Eliza. " He won t die 
unless he does it to get rid of hear 
ing you make that outrageous noise." 
Eliza held her tongue and gazed like 
one distraught at the young lady, with 
the beautiful clothes, who had a com 
mand of ready invective somewhat at 
variance with her appearance. Betty 
took immediate advantage of her stupe 
faction. 

" Now go and get your mother a glass 
of water," she said, " and take her this," 
and she placed a toy vinaigrette in the 
hands of the obedient Eliza. Then she 
began to talk to Nat, whose boyish en 
durance found food and comfort in her 
attentions. She had begun bravely, but 
it was with a sigh of relief that she 
heard Mrs. Mint s voice in the entry. 

"Don t take on,", she was saying. 
" Men are always doing things to them 
selves, even in their cradles." The vi 
sion of a large man in a small cradle in 
clined Betty s nerves to hysterical laugh 
ter, but she did not yield to it. "It s 
fortunate the Lord made em tough," 
concluded Mrs. Mint. With this placid 
ity between her and the contingency of 
Neal s unprofessional bandaging prov 
ing insufficient, it did not seem very 
long to Betty before the doctor entered, 
with Neal, who had met him at the end 
of a mile covered at racing speed. Then 
she was free to go out of the room and 
take her damp skirts and slippers home 
again. Neal had an umbrella for her 
this time, and in that short, sloppy 
walk home they were nearer in sym 
pathy than they had ever been before. 
The half -mocking and critical, half -in 
different attitude which Miss Everard 
had hitherto maintained to the young 
clergyman had given way to a natural 
feminine confidence in this man, who had 
known what to do in case of accident 
and had then run a mile, in a pouring 
rain, for a doctor. The old ineradi 
cable instinct of the weaker toward the 
stronger had gotten the better of her 
cultured perceptions. With Neal an 
equally natural force exerted itself. 
She had been feminine and calm and 
apprehensively brave, instead of fasci 



nating, eluding, and dangerously broad- 
minded. In fact, she had adopted a de 
meanor which would have done credit 
to Emily Grant herself. He did not 
formulate this last idea, but it was in 
the background, casting its protecting 
shadow over the attachment he felt for 
Miss Everard. 

The next two weeks saw the two often 
together. Kenyon s was too remote from 
contemporary observation for gossip. 

As for Mrs. Mint and Mrs. Thrum, 
life was to them a spectacle of much in 
terest, few surprises, and no fining and 
refining of motives or mental processes 
whatsoever. 

It was natural that the time Neal had 
to spare from pastoral work should be 
spent with Miss Everard. Notwith 
standing their many differences, and the 
fact that Betty was always mentally com 
paring him with greater men of his own 
profession, to his manifest disadvantage, 
they represented the same intellectual 
plane. In a community where intellect 
ual interests were wide-spread, these dif 
ferences would have kept them apart ; 
in this isolated spot they were drawn 
together. 

One afternoon she again sat before 
the open window writing. The deeper, 
thicker green outside, and the burning, 
impalpable haze that penetrated without 
obscuring the landscape, showed that it 
was no longer early summer. 

" Dear Frances," her letter ran : " It has 
always been my wish to gratify your en 
tirely legitimate appetite for personal 
details, when in my power. I shall let 
this occasion be no exception ; conse 
quently, when you ask How about the 
clerical Mr. Neal? Is not the point of 
view changing ? I hasten to reply with 
a frankness which should disarm un 
worthy suspicion. Yes, certainly, the 
point of view has changed." 

Here Miss Everard paused, and in 
sensibly drifted into a purposeless rev- 
ery ; then, biting her pen-handle with 
some determination, she brought herself 
up sharply to self-analysis. 

" Much more than this I am not pre 
pared to say. He has grown more 
interesting, certainly I am not sure 
that he has not grown indispensable I 
know I can trust you to understand that 
I refer only to my existence here. He 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



235 



annoys me frequently. This may be in 
your mind an important point ^he an 
noys me more than is altogether com 
patible with personal indifference. I 
like him best when he is serious and 
earnest. Unhappily, he has oppo 
site moods moods of gayety when he 
seeks to make evident that, while he is 
a clergyman, he is not held in by iron- 
bound tradition, and then he makes 
jokes upon serious subjects. These are 
jokes which to a polished unbeliever 
would seem to lack humor, and are to 
me irreverent. He means to imply that 
his heart is so thoroughly in the right 
place that he can afford to play with 
the fringes upon the robe of righteous 
ness. I have always thought that humor 
should be the more carefully handled 
rather than the less, when applied to 
what we love and honor. After he has 
said something of this kind he perceives, 
somehow, that he has not struck quite 
the note of worldly culture he thinks ap 
propriate for my ears, and relapses into 
a mood of momentary depression which 
he shakes off with another joke, possibly 
in still worse taste, to prove to himself 
and to me that there was no harm in the 
first one. Yes, this more than annoys 
it irritates me. I think that is the worst 
I can say of him. As opposed to this, 
he has an earnestness and a sincerity of 
purpose which make me like him. Now 
and then, Frances, you know, one tires 
of these broad people to whom all things 
are equally important. 

" I could write a history of Whitney 
I think I shall, sometime. But it must 
be of its historic period when Mrs. 
Mint lived there. Such exciting things 
happened there then the air was thick 
with mystery and the salons of the 
women of Whitney wielded far, peace 
and war. Nothing happens there now. 
I went there with Mrs. Mint the other 
day. I was dreadfully disappointed. 
The streets are grassy lanes. To quote 
again from the same poem : Such a car 
pet as o erspreads every vestige of the 
city, guessed alone where a multitude 
of men breathed joy and woe, long ago. 
Perhaps the multitude of men was a 
fiction of my imagination, under the 
sway of Mrs. Mint s reminiscences. But 
not the joy and woe they are not 
prerogatives of a multitude. 



It s very trying, do you know, Frances, 
every now and then, when you are really 
interested in a subject, to come up 
against a bowlder of prepossession. Do 
you know what I mean ? Suppose one 
is talking of some point of doctrine or 
criticism, or anything you like, and you 
find what you say accepted without ar 
gument or protest, simply because your 
whole training and belief are so wrong 
that there is no use saying anything. 
And this when you know perfectly well 
that your own stand-point is really that 
learned from the wise and broad minds 
of the century. Do you know what that 
is ? It is exasperating. 

" Always yours, 

" BETTY." 

A week later Betty sat on the little 
porch. It was moonlight, and the soft 
radiance which here betrays and here 
conceals, with supernatural perception 
of the artistic needs of earth and hu 
manity, had cast its mantle over even 
the rocking-chairs which stood empty 
on either side, so that they might have 
been slight, delicate frames waiting for 
fair and unearthly shapes, instead of 
sturdy and reliable supports for Mrs. 
Thrum and Mrs. Mint, just gone inside 
out of the damp. Something of this 
sort came into Miss Everard s fanciful 
head, resting against the door-post, as 
she sat on the low step of the threshold 
and watched the dainty lace-like pattern 
made upon the wooden boards, by the 
moonlight shining through the prosaic 
cane seats of the chairs. 

" Why not a dryad ? " she said, dream 
ily. " A nineteenth-century dryad of a 
wooden rocking-chair ? I am sure if I 
were one I d rather inhabit a rocking- 
chair than the trunk of a tree." Neal 
looked up at her from the lower step. 
The moonlight fell upon her hair, soft 
ening the curves of her face and figure 
with its own half -spiritual, half-sensuous 
suggestiveness. Her eyes deepened and 
darkened as she looked from the porch 
out into the fragrant, clinging duskiness 
of the summer night. It was one or two 
minutes before he became conscious 
that she had spoken, and that, instead 
of answering, he had been watching her 
with an intensity that partook a little 
too much of the thoughtlessness of irre- 



236 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



sponsible manhood. With an effort he 
turned away and gazed into the shad 
ows of the opposite wood, whence came 
the low, persistent sounds of manifold 
insect vivacity. 

" Dryads," he repeated, slowly. He 
was not quite sure what he was going 
to say, but the sudden recollection of 
Emily Grant, as she had appeared once 
crowned with leaves at a strawberry fes 
tival, where he had addressed her as 
" Fair dryad," helped him to pull him 
self together. 

" Those old myths," he said, " will al 
ways bind the fancy more or less. They 
have a certain hold on the truths of nat 
ure that appeals to the universal hu 
man heart." 

While he could be didactic, he was 
safe from any misleading influence of the 
hour. 

"Why myths ? " demanded Betty, per 
versely. " Why may they not have ex 
isted ? long ago, you know ; I don t 
say," she admitted, with fine tolerance, 
" that they exist now. But I am quite 
as likely to have descended from a dryad 
as from an oyster." 

Although Neal did not look at her 
again he knew her portrait, and he felt 
that really she had reason on her side. 

" An oyster," he repeated, vaguely. 

"Yes, why not?" 

" I have no sympathy with the theory 
of evolution myself," he asserted, shift 
ing a little the ground of argument. 
There was a movement on the wooden 
boards of the small slippered foot at his 
side. 

" But that hasn t anything to do with 
it," said Miss Everard. 

" But it has," he responded, unguard 
edly allowing himself to be drawn into 
opposing her absurdity, and he turned 
and looked up into her face. Possibly 
Miss Everard had anticipated this, for 
she smiled down at him, and, with a sud 
den loss of active interest, said : " Has 
it ? " as if she had no particular objec 
tion. Again Neal saw the fair outline, 
and the white wrists, and the shadowy 
eyes, and again he betook himself to the 
firm ground of controversy. 

"How certain men in the Church 
itself can assume the theories of evo 
lution to be facts is a mysterious thing," 
he declared. "Its conclusions are ad 



verse to all that we have of revela 
tion." 

"Oh," she demurred, "doesn t that 
depend on the way of looking at it ? " 

"No," he said, "that would be the 
end of peace and safety. We can look 
at a thing in such a way as to make it 
appear its direct contrary." As he spoke, 
he knew that it was not as warmly as 
usual. He believed what he said, but 
for the first time in his life a doubt crept 
into his heart concerning the absolute 
verity of all the conclusions of his life. 
Was it possible that some of them might 
be mistaken ones ? Even as he pushed 
away the doubt, it was almost with the 
unallowed exclamation, What matters ? 
He was frightened at the thought. Was 
it possible that there was any force in 
the world strong enough to make his 
theological convictions a secondary mat 
ter? Yet even the fright did not last, 
the apprehension that he might be los 
ing his hold on the very essence of his 
life-work grew faint and far a\vay. Was 
everything slipping away into a world 
of unrealities except the moonlight, and 
the sweet July air, and a beautiful wom 
an on the steps above him all reali 
ties, whose presence he felt as he had 
often in moods of special grace felt other 
higher things ? 

" But shouldn t we admit all of science 
that we can ?" said Betty. "Is not that 
the way not to fear it ? " 

" Ah, that is the dangerous doctrine," 
he answered. "It is this paltering with 
science, this readiness to give up the 
divinations of truth for the mathematics 
of science that is working us loss and 
injury." 

How well he knew the words, though 
he said them perfunctorily enough. 
They came to his lips readily. They 
were the result of honest thought. 
How often he had said them and heard 
them, together with his friend of semi 
nary days, before he had come to the 
Centre, before he had loved this woman, 
who meant grace and beauty and mental 
inspiration and delicious companionship 
and life itself before he had loved her ! 
He had not known where he was going ; 
the knowledge overwhelmed him in a 
flood of conviction. Before its illuminat 
ing power he stood abashed but unre- 
gretful. He covered his eyes for a mo- 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



237 



inent s thought. It seemed to him as if 
a long time passed, but it was only a 
moment, and Betty was saying, with a 
little sigh : 

" Well, perhaps. We don t any of us 
know too much. Let us not lose the 
divinations of truth, whatever else may 
go." She thought him narrow, and 
the hopelessness of finding a common 
ground, at which she had hinted to 
Frances, oppressed her ; but she had a 
deep reverence for conviction, and as 
she saw him, his head bowed in serious 
thought, she withheld her tongue from 
argument and assented to what truth 
she accepted. Neal looked up. The 
shadows of the woods were black be 
yond the broad white pathway of the 
road, edged by the tall, ragged weeds, 
fairy-like under the general enchant 
ment. The summer chorus had grown 
somewhat subdued, the fragrance of 
sweet-william mingled with that of the 
pines. 

"Betty," he said. Miss Everard s 
eyes grew a little startled. She had not 
thought this was so near. She lifted 
her hand. 

" Hush ! " she said, leaning forward. 
" Listen a moment." Involuntarily 
Neal turned his head and looked to 
ward the road, listening too. The sound 
of a horse s hoofs was heard. 

It was a most unusual thing at night. 
Betty was vaguely frightened. There 
is always something a trifle spectral in 
the hoof -beats of an unseen horse. 
Neal was interested and curious. It 
grew more distinct, the horse and rider 
were not far off. 

" Who can it be ? " murmured Betty. 

"I don t know, I m sure," answered 
Neal, and he rose and walked down to 
the little gate, between the sweet-william 
and phlox. Betty rose too, and as she 
waited on the step saw the horse turn 
down toward Deacon Evans s. 

"It is someone for me," said Neal, 
and he half-opened the gate and paused 
again. There were voices from the 
house, and in a few moments the horse 
man had wheeled about, traversed the 
short remaining distance, and stood be 
fore Neal at the gate. 

" Old Missis Taunton is dying," said 
a boyish voice. " She s been took sud 
den, and she says as how she won t die 



without the minister. So if you ll ride 
Streak back, you ll just about get there, 
I guess." 

The boy stood holding the bridle, and 
Neal looked back. " You hear what it 
is, Miss Everard?" he said; "I must 

go-" 

" Yes, of course," she murmured, " I 
understand." 

He sprang on the horse, lifted his hat, 
and rode up the road out of sight, and 
the boy, declining her suggestion of 
rest, guessed he d walk along. 

Betty went in and put out the sitting- 
room lamp, nowadays always confided 
to her care, bolted the front door, and 
groped her way up the dark stairwajr. 
Instead of lighting her bedroom candle, 
she went to the window through whose 
uncurtained frame the moonlight poured 
in. This window was still upheld by 
Gibbon s "Decline and Fall," and she 
gazed at the volume with a transient 
revival of interest. The second volume 
had given place to the first, which had 
been finished with a sensation of tri 
umph which had carried her, free from 
conscience-pricks, over three days of no 
reading at all. With this trifling ex 
ception, the window-support sustained 
its original form. 

"It is curious," she said to herself. 
" I came up here to devote myself to the 
past, and it seems to me now that all my 
interests are in the future." 

She leaned her elbows on the top of 
the sash. When the messenger had 
swung himself from his horse below 
there at the gate, and she had heard 
him deliver his message, it had seemed 
a harsh, prosaic interruption to that 
scene of quiet, etherealized emotion. 
Old Mrs. Taunton was a hard-fisted, 
rich old woman. Who was she, that she 
should have come between these two 
just as he looked into her face and 
called her by her name ? But that im 
pression had been replaced by the reali 
zation that it was no trivial thing that 
had interrupted them. It was not a 
whim of old Mrs. Taunton. It was 
nothing less solemn than Death itself 
one of the two or three great facts of 
life. There were not so many of them 
that were unalterable, unevadable yes, 
to be sure, there was Love. And was 
not Love always confronted with the aw- 



238 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



ful strength of Death ? Oh, yes, it was 
appropriate enough. She smiled as she 
remembered her irritation with his 
opinions, the narrowness which had 
seemed a hopeless stumbling-block in 
the way of their understanding one 
another. What were such small mat 
ters, compared with the power to face 
the realities of existence ? How quickly, 
how naturally, he answered appeals such 
as this to-night an appeal men and 
women of broader culture and larger 
views might have shrunk from. It 
seemed to Miss Everard as if, for the 
first time, she saw the true proportions 
of things. 

Meanwhile Neal sat by the dying 
woman. She had sunk into temporary 
unconsciousness, but the doctor prophe 
sied a brief return to reason and urged 
him to remain. Of course he did not 
dream of refusing, and as he sat there in 
the darkened room, silent, save for the 
heavy, uneven breathing at his side, he, 
too, face to face with Death, began 
again to see things in what he felt to be 
their true proportions. He was still 
under the spell of Betty s beauty and 
grace, he still felt the subtle influence 
of the scene he had just left, but the 
caution of his training and customary 
line of thought reasserted itself. Was 
this the woman who would be a help 
meet in the work he had to do ? Would 
not this very beauty and grace be al 
most a drawback in an unappreciative 
parish ? Less avowedly, but forcibly, 
came the reflection, would not this very 
quickness of intellect, now a refresh 
ment, be a snare in the way of a fitting 
reverence for his authority and his of 
fice ? To be sure, she had other claims 
on his affection. He thought of her as 
she sat on the farm-house floor, holding 
Nat s wounded arm, pale and resolute. 
A rush of love for her swept him on for 
a moment, but he fought with it and 
turned back. It was a crisis in his life 
let him be wise ! Half an hour later 
old Mrs. Taunton stirred, and called 
feebly. Neal knelt down at her side to 
pray. When he came away in the early 
morning after she died, he walked back 
to the farm-house with firm lips and de 
termined stride. Later that day he 
wrote a friendly letter to Emily Grant. 

It was the last day of August that the 



rocking-chairs on the porch were filled 
by Mrs. Thrum and Mrs. Mint. 

"I m sorry she s going," said the lat 
ter. " She hasn t been any trouble, and 
she s made it more lively since she s been 
here." She continued : "It has seemed 
more like Whitney more like what it 
was when I lived there." 

" I m sorry too," said Mrs. Thrum. 
" She s going to send me her photograph, 
and I think I ll get a frame for it one 
of those red-velvet ones. They have em 
at the Centre. It isn t very good velvet, 
but I guess it ll do. Not but what she s 
used to the best," she added. " Ought 
to have it, too." 

" Mr. Neal ll miss her some, I guess," 
added Camilla, slowly rocking back and 
forth. 

Elvira s chair jerked back suddenly. 

"Miss her! He ll miss her, fast 
enough," and the chair flew forward 
again as Mrs. Thrum rose. " But what s 
missing f " and with what might have 
been a scornful toss she passed into the 
house. Mrs. Mint knit on placidly, 
steeped in reminiscences of a young 
clergyman who made a brief sojourn in 
Whitney. 

Miss Everard was writing to Frances. 

" Dear Frances," she said : "I start 
for home to-morrow. Yes, I think, per 
haps, I am a little bored. But it is time 
for me to be at home, anyway, if you and 
I go away for September. As for Cory- 
don yes, again it may be that I long 
to exchange the combination of crook 
and pastoral staff you refer to for some 
thing more polished and worldly. Any 
way, come and see me at the end of the 
week. 

"Yours, 

"BETTY." 

" I ve finished the Decline and Fall. " 

It was more than a year later. The 
sparse trees of the prosperous manu 
facturing town whither Alfred Neal had 
been called to take charge of a parish 
were already losing their yellow leaves, 
and the pretentious house opposite 
looked as cruelly unshaded and aggres 
sively new as its owner s social position. 
Neal looked older and somewhat graver 
this afternoon, as he read the New York 
paper that had just come by mail. His 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



239 



air of superb confidence that for a man 
of good physique and theological train 
ing nothing ever came hard had di 
minished, but he had not lost by the 
change. Instead, his face had gained in 
thought and purpose. 

"Married, October fifteenth, at the 
Church of the Holy Trinity, Elizabeth, 
daughter of Franklin Everard" the 
paper fell with a sudden rustle to the 
floor, and Neal strode to the window and 
leaned his forehead against the pane, 
staring across at the rich manufacturer s 
house, which stared back with all the 
strength of its uncurtained windows. 
In a few moments he came back, picked 
up the paper, and finished reading the 
notice. He knew the man by name and 
reputation well enough. He reddened 
with shamed annoyance when he real 
ized that he was trying to think if he had 
ever heard anything against him, and 
he was sincerely glad that he had not. 
He dropped the paper again and threw 
his head back in his one easy-chair, and 
in so doing disarranged a silk-embroid 
ered scarf worked by a member of the 
choir, and knocked off a balsam pillow 
sent him by one of his Sunday-school 
teachers. He recalled every incident of 
his last interview with Betty. After 
three months of a struggle which had 
taught him much he had not dreamed 
it necessary to learn, he had gone to see 
her at her own home. She had worn a 
pale-blue gown, and her head lay against 
the back of the cushioned, luxurious 
chair just as he had seen it on the 
rough pine-tree and the hard door-post 
at Kenyon s. 

" No, Mr. Neal," she had said, kindly, 
so very kindly. " It really is too late 
for this sort of thing, you know. Up 
there, it was different. I think, one even 
ing the night old Mrs. Taunton died 
what a superb summer night it was 
do you remember ? " He had raised his 
eyes and looked at her in silence when 
she said that. 

" Yes/ she went on, " I think you do. 
Well, that evening I think I was in love 
with you. I thought you very fine and 
noble, and I thought you could make me 
happy. Not that I don t think all those 
things now, you know," and whether her 
smile had a touch of its old mockery or 
not he could not for the life of him have 



told, " but I accept them as I do other 
facts, the personal appeal of them has 
vanished " he had been about to speak 
then, but she went on, with a slight gest 
ure " vanished, I am afraid I must say, 
Mr. Neal, forever." 

He remembered with a tremor, as of 
physical pain, how he had felt when she 
said those words. They were both silent 
for a moment. Miss Everard s slipper 
had slightly disturbed the snatched 
slumbers of a terrier that lay at her feet. 
Then she had spoken again. 

" But you thought I would not do, you 
know " 

"Miss Everard," he had broken in, 



" No, don t speak yet, please, Mr. Neal," 
she had said, smiling still ; "I can say 
it a great deal better than you can. I 
have quite a gift for analyzing impres 
sions, and I m not a bit vexed. You 
thought I wouldn t do, and 

He was glad that he had insisted on 
speaking once, at least. 

"I did a foolish thing," he had ex 
claimed ; " and I have suffered for it. 
But it was because I did not heed my 
own convictions. I admired you I 
loved you then, as now, but I did not 
know until afterward that it was your 
character, your very self, that I loved as 
well as your beauty and your wit." 

" Oh, Mr. Neal," she had exclaimed, 
softly, " you are saying beautiful things 
to me, but " here she had leaned over 
and frankly held out her hand " but you 
were right, in the first place ; there is 
nothing to be sorry for I wouldn t do 
at all. I know that now better than you 
knew it then. I thank you for being 
wise for us both." 

Had ever man had his wisdom held 
up to him wearing more completely the 
guise of folly, he wondered to-day, as he 
absently played with an etched pen- wiper, 
the gift of the youngest member of his 
Bible-class ? Folly, pitiless, irrevocable 
folly ! and how sweetly she had shown it 
him, and how sure she had been that she 
was right ! While he and he rose and 
straightened himself as though to throw 
off the burden of his fatal uncertainty 
was she perhaps right, right for him as 
well as for herself ? Heaven knows ! 

The afternoon was wearing on. Au 
tumn clouds were piling up in the west. 



240 



RENUNCIATION. 



He looked out of the window again. The 
manufacturer s youngest son was play 
ing the hose over the clothes hung out 
to dry in the side yard. He turned 
away, took his hat, and went out. Down 
the street was a small, pretty, quiet house, 
and on its piazza he rang the bell. 



" Is Miss Emily Grant still here ? " he 
asked the maid who opened the door. 

"Yes, sir," was the answer. "She 
does not leave till to-morrow." 

"Tell her," he said, entering, "that 
Mr. Neal would like to see her for a few 
minutes." 




RENUNCIATION. 

By Emily Dickinson. 

THERE came a day at Summer s full 

Entirely for me ; 
I thought that such was for the saints 

Where Eevelations be. 

The Sun as common went abroad, 
The flowers accustomed blew, 

As if no sail the solstice passed 
That maketh all things new. 

The time was scarce profaned by speech ; 

The symbol of a word 
Was needless as at Sacrament 

The wardrobe of our Lord. 

The hours slid past, as hours will, 
Clutched tight by greedy hands ; 

So faces on two Decks look back 
Bound to opposing Lands. 

And so, when all the time had failed 

Without external sound, 
Each bound the other s crucifix 

We gave no other bond. 

Sufficient troth that we should rise, 
Deposed at length the grave, 

To that new marriage justified 
Through Calvaries of Love ! 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 

By John Seymour Wood. 




|HE Archibald house, on 
West Forty Street, 
was of the character 
described as a " mod 
ernized front." A 
handsome arch in 
rough stone sur 
mounted the front 
door, which w a s 
done in polished oak 
and plate-glass. The stoop was on a 
level with the sidewalk ; a richly carved 
bow-window jutted out from the second 
story. " No. 41," in old iron open work, 
formed a pretty grating above the door. 
There was, in fact, nothing which 
would lead an ordinary person to con 
ceive of the house as given over to 
boarders, except, possibly, the sign, 



TO 


LET, 


FURNISHED. 



which was posted conspicuously below 
the first-story window, and at an angle 
which enabled him that ran to read. 

Old Mr. Archibald s death, the autumn 
before, had left his widow rather poorer 
than she anticipated. He was a great 
collector of pretty things. His taste 
was exquisite, and he had gratified it 
by filling his house with a variety of 
bric-d-brac, pictures, statuary, and old 
furniture, which made it a centre of 
attraction to many of the old gentle 
man s artistic friends. Mrs. Archibald, 
loathe to dispose of her husband s art 
collections, determined to let the house, 
as it stood, "at an exorbitant figure, to 
a very rich tenant without children." 
Under these terms, on her departure for 
Europe, her agent was entrusted witli 
the house, and her son Jerome, when he 
saw her off on the steamer, received a 
parting injunction, " Be sure and see 
that they have no children." Jerome 
Archibald saw his mother and sisters 
depart in no very enviable frame of 
mind ; but he was" a good son, and he 
VOL. VIII. 23 



resolved to forego Newport, if it would 
tend to dispose of the house as his 
mother wished, and add to her dimin 
ished income. 

His mother and sisters sailed in May. 
It was now July, and very warm and dis 
agreeable. As the " heated term " set in, 
he began to think it too bad, you know, 
of mamma and the girls to remain 
abroad for three whole years. It was 
positively absurd. What was he to 
do? After the house was let where 
was he to go ? By Jove, he felt deuced 
lonely, don t you know ! It was espe 
cially trying for a sensitive man to go 
in and out of a house with a great 
placard on it, "To Let, Furnished," 
but it was a deal more trying to have 
people come and want board. Yes, 
actually, two ladies came one morning 
and wanted to know if they could see 
the landlord. It was positively ridicu 
lous! His agent was a clevah fellow, 
but even he gave up hope of letting 
the house until fall. Hadn t he better 
run down to Newport ? He got a let 
ter from Dick Trellis that morning, 
and they really didn t see how they 
were going to get on without him in 
the polo matches. It put him in a fum 
ing fury. He had never stayed late in 
the city in summer before. How in 
fernally hot it was and nahsty don t 
you know ! His collars were in a per 
petual state of wilt they never wilted 
at Newport. Then everybody was not 
only out of town, having a good time 
somewhere, but they had a provok 
ing way now of ostentatiously boarding 
up their front-doors yes and their 
windows, too which made it doubly 
disagreeable for those who had to re 
main. It was bad enough to see the 
blinds drawn down, but boxing up 
their stone-work and planking up their 
front -doors caused Mr. Jerome Archibald 
unutterable pangs. Then they thought 
it was a boarding-house ! 

They were coming again in the after 
noon, at four. There were two of them 
ladies. In his rather depressing and 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



243 



solitary occupation of living alone in 
his house, with one solemn apoplectic 
cook and one chalk-faced maid, in order 
to exhibit it to that endless raft of 
females with "permits," who univer 
sally condemned or " damned with faint 
praise " his father s exquisite taste in 
rugs and furniture, Mr. Jerome Archi 
bald had to-day admitted to himself a 
distinct pleasure in showing "Miss Per 
kins " and her niece (whose name did 
not happen at the time to be mentioned) 
over the house, and pointing out in his 
quiet way its excellences. 

They saw the sign, they said, and so 
made bold to enter. Evidently Miss 
Perkins was a prim, thin, tall, specta 
cled, New England old maid. She had 
the delicate air and manner of a lady. 
A lady faded, perhaps, and unused to a 
larger social area than that surrounding 
her native village green. She had also 
the timid manner of hesitancy of New 
England spinsters hesitancy concern 
ing everything except questions of cas 
uistry and religion and seemed, in 
what she did, to be spurred on from be 
hind by the niece, who, was, on the whole, 
as Mr. Jerome Archibald told a friend at 
the club later, " quite extraordinary." 

In the first place, as he said, the 
niece was undeniably beautiful. 

"She wore rawther an odd street 
dress," he said, " made up in the coun 
try somewhere, by a seamstress who 
gathered her crude notions of the pre 
vailing fashions from some prevaricat 
ing ladies journal, and her hat was 
something positively ridiculous but 
her face I " The fastidious Mr. Jerome 
Archibald at once conceded to it a cer 
tain patrician quality of elegance. It 
denoted pure blood and pure breeding, 
somewhere up among Vermont hills or 
Maine forests. A long line of " intelli 
gent ancestors," perhaps. It was fine 
and beautiful. The forehead high, 
nose straight, the large eyes gray, the 
mouth and chin sweet, and yet quite 
determined. When he showed them a 
large room at the rear, on the second 
story, facing the north, the niece had 
observed, with a lofty air mind, the 
room was literally crammed with the 
most costly bric-d-brac "I think this 
will suit me very well, aunt dear, on ac 
count of the light." 



He noticed in her unfashionable dress 
a certain artistic sense of freedom, a 
soup $ on of colored ribbon here and there, 
and he concluded that she was all the 
more interesting, as an artist, in that she 
so quietly accepted the elegancies around 
her. She gave an unconscious sigh 
over a small glass-covered "Woodland 
Scene," by Duprez. Mr. Jerome Archi 
bald noticed it, and inwardly smiled, 
delighted. 

Perhaps the niece captivated him the 
more by her silent appreciation of some 
things he himself admired exceedingly. 
It was odd that she seemed always to 
choose his favorites. There was nothing 
said as to the rent, the size of the house, 
the lot, the plumbing. He spent an 
hour showing his etchings alone, and in 
the afternoon, at four, they were coming 
again, "to decide." 

II. 

OF course Mr. Jerome Archibald must 
have been an extremely susceptible young 
man to have fallen in love at first sight 
with a strange young woman, who had 
come to look at his house with a view to 
renting. But he was " rawther down 
and depressed." The usual summer ma 
laria had set in. The usual excavations 
in the streets were going on they were 
digging with " really extraordinary en 
ergy" that summer the pavements were 
up on all the Fortieth streets. Fifth 
Avenue presented the appearance of a 
huge empty canal. It w T as something 
more, this presidential year, than the 
perennial laying clown and taking up of 
pipes. "He was really ripe for une 
grande affaire du cceur" said one of his 
club friends, he was getting so lone 
some. He did fall quite entirely in 
love, precipitately, unquestionably, in 
spite of the fact that they took the house 
for a boardin g- place ! They asked to 
hire but one room only. 

When they arrived, at 4 P.M., they sat 
a few moments in the reception-room, 
while the chalk -faced, alert maid an 
nounced them to Archibald in the room 
above. Miss Perkins folded her faded, 
gloved hands in her lap and sat up on 
the sofa stiffly. They had looked at ever 
so many houses, and they had come back 
to No. 41 with instinctive preference. 




came, Miss Price, because don t you know I aw missed you." Page 254. 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



245 



"I don t think one room would be 
so very expensive," said Miss Perkins. 
"He could put up two beds easily in 
that north room, and the room we saw 
on Thirty-fourth Street was only twelve 
dollars what do you think, Elvira ? " 

" I think twelve dollars is altogether 
too high," said the niece, looking up 
from a delicate little Elzevir she was 
holding. "I think he wants to let the 
rooms very much ; none of them seem 
to be taken. Remember it is midsum 
mer, aunt dear." 

There was a little pause. 

" Of course he will prefer having nice 
people. It will be a great help to your 
art, Elvira you can study at great ad 
vantage. There are so many pictures 
for you to copy. I think your father 
would say it was a lucky find. If you 
will persist in your art, why, I think 
we are very fortunate." 

"You are always ready to sneer at 
my art, Aunt Perkins." And she gave a 
peculiar laugh. 

"It is something that has come up 
since my day," she replied, glancing 
about over the pictures and the rare 
editions on the table. " I was brought 
up to plain living. But I guess if we 
can get it all for twelve dollars we 
ought to be satisfied. It s a pleasant 
change to see the city. It s pleasant 
to see these ornaments. Yes, I don t 
blame art so much as your father does, 
Elvira, and I don t believe he would 
blame it if he knew we could have so 
much of it for twelve dollars." 

" Eather secretly admires it as much 
as I do," said the niece ; " only he likes 
to talk." 

Just then Mr. Jerome Archibald en 
tered. He w r as faultlessly dressed in 
half-mourning for his father. Indeed, 
he had dressed himself with exceeding 
care, being desirous, he frankly admitted 
to himself, of making an impression. 
He bowed graciously, and took Elvira s 
extended gloved hand, which, as she 
offered it, he held a moment. "Have 
you decided ? " he asked. 

They had explained, when they left in 
the morning, that they should want only 
one room, and he tacitly inferred that 
they would require board. He received 
a dreadful shock, but made up his mind 
that the charming niece would prove the 
VOL. VIII. 24 



more charming on closer acquaintance, 
and he deliberately decided to keep both 
the gentle New Englanders under his 
roof for a time, if he could ! The more 
he thought of the plan, the more inter 
esting the situation became to him. He 
fairly dreaded, at last, lest they should 
find their way into a remote boarding- 
house in some cheap quarter of the city, 
where it would be quite impossible for 
him to follow them. He gravely an 
nounced to the astonished maid that 
he had determined to let out the rooms 
to the ladies, who, he pretended for 
her benefit, were old acquaintances. 
When they were announced he was 
scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. 
Mr. Jerome Archibald had fallen in 
love. 

" We have decided to take one room," 
said Elvira, " if we can agree upon the 
price ; and we wish to know the price 
of board " 

" We shan t want much to eat," put in 
Miss Perkins, with a nervous twitch. 

Archibald admirably concealed a smile. 
His long mustache aided him a good 
deal in doing this. He was still stand 
ing, and he put his hand to his lips : "I 
think we shall agree very easily upon 
the price," he said. 

Miss Perkins again twitched a little. 
" We thought twelve dollars room and 
board -" she said, leaving the sentence 
half finished, while Elvira looked up at 
him, expectantly. 

" My dear ladies, I should not think 
of charging more than ten. You are 
strangers in the city, and I would not 
impose upon you for the world. It hap 
pens that this is the dull season " 

" So we thought," said Miss Perkins, 
" and board and lodging ought to come 
a little cheaper." 

" Precisely. The maid will show you 
your sleeping-room and, of course, the 
entire house is at your service. I hope 
you will find everything to your com 
fort. I am very anxious to please." 
He laughed a little. 

Elvira gave him a grateful, but at the 
same time a rather patronizing, glance. 
He felt at once that in carrying out his 
little ruse he had placed himself deliber 
ately upon a questionable footing with 
the beautiful girl. He hoped, however, 
to redeem himself by impressing her 



246 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



with his knowledge of the pursuit which, 
he accurately judged, had brought the 
ladies to the city. Archibald had at one 
time done a little painting himself. He 
had dreamed dreams, as a young man, 
which indolence and the stern business 
atmosphere of the city had choked off 
prematurely. As he looked down upon 
the girl s sweet gray eyes a vision of 
this youthful period came back to him. 
Twenty-two and thirty-two have this in 
common, that the latter age is not too 
far away to quite despise the younger 
enthusiasm. Archibald at thirty-two 
still believed in himself, don t you know. 



HI. 

SEVERAL days passed, during which the 
ladies settled themselves very readily in 
their new surroundings. They were 
very methodical, preferring to rise at 
an hour which, to Archibald, was some 
thing savoring of barbarism. He studied 
their habits, with a view to conform 
ing to them as far as possible, but 
found that he could not bring himself 
to give up his nine-o clock breakfasts, 
and so went out to his club, leaving 
orders that the ladies should be ac 
commodated at the earliest hour they 
might choose. He found that they had 
discovered Central Park, and came to 
make it a habit to stroll with them of a 
morning upon the Mall, and around 
the stagnant lakes. Central Park was 
a novelty to him, except as seen from 
horseback, or a four-in-hand, and it 
really seemed very beautiful those sum 
mer mornings he was really surprised, 
don t you know ! He wondered that 
nice people did not use the Park more 
as they did Hyde Park in London. 
As the days went on he filled his house 
with flowers, turned the second floor 
into an immense studio for Elvira, sat 
about and watched her, criticised, en 
couraged her. He forgot Newport, for 
got his polo. He had strangely ceased to 
be bored. He was happy in New York 
in mid-summer ! Dick Trellis told his 
polo friends at Newport that Archibald 
was probably undergoing private treat 
ment for softening of the brain, which 
theory, in fact, they deemed sufficiently 
complimentary. 



As for his mother and sisters in 
Europe Why, pray, should he inform 
them of his little joke ? 

Elvira worked away at her easel when 
the light was best during the after 
noon. In the evening, after dinner, the 
ladies became socially inclined. It was 
then that they allowed Archibald to 
smoke in the " studio " and talk Art with 
Elvira. Indeed he found it very diffi 
cult to talk anything else with the shy 
New England primrose. 

About Art with a big A she was 
rapturous. There seemed to be in her 
soul a strange hunger for everything 
ornate and richly beautiful. Archibald 
devoted himself to studying her. He 
became strangely interested in East 
Village, Vt., where, he gathered, the 
Hon. Ephraim B. Price, her father, was 
a very distinguished Republican law- 
3 r er and politician. He drew Aunt Per 
kins out concerning her Congregational 
church, her minister, her fear of the 
Catholics, her fondness for cats, her se 
cret disbelief in Art. Once in a while 
they read him a letter from the Hon. 
Ephraim, in which he could see reflected 
their own liking for him. He found that 
he was spoken of as " Landlord Archi 
bald." The Hon. Ephraim was a shrewd 
old fellow, however, and his counsels and 
advice were generally of the " trust-no t- 
too-much-to-appearances " order. One 
evening Miss Perkins complained of a 
headache, and Archibald found himself 
alone for an hour with Elvira. She 
sat beneath the rich brazen lamp, with 
its pretty crimson shade, absorbing 
some of the red glow in her lovely 
face. They had been two weeks in the 
city, and out of delicate feeling had 
deposited two ten-dollar bills upon the 
mantelpiece in the library, where Archi 
bald would see them. He had roared 
with laughter over them and intended 
having them framed, but ultimately he 
found a different use for their amusing 
board-money. 

He made some little allusion to the 
time they had been with him. 

" Two very short weeks," said Elvira, 
" and you have been so very unusually 
kind, Mr. Archibald. You have done so 
much for us. We have noticed it. Is 
it usual for landlords to to do so much, 
in the city?" 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



247 



" It depends," he said, gravely. " Laud- 
lords do more for people who are con 
genial you are congenial " 

" Oh f" A slight pause. 

"You are more than congenial, 
really," said Archibald. " For you take 
an interest, Miss Price. I have secret 
ly espied both you and your aunt dust 
ing " 

Elvira bit her lip. " We have dusted," 
she admitted, reddening a little, " but it 
is merely out of force of habit." 

" Really," said Archibald, " I rawther 
like you the better for it, don t you 
know ! " 

"I m afraid," said Elvira, her face 
lighting up with conscious pleasure, 
" that you have made up your mind as 
a landlord to like us, whatever we do. 
I m afraid you would not like it at all 
if you knew everything that aunt has 
done." 

" Tell me I will keep it a profound 
secret, I assure you," he laughed. 

" She has actually dared to invade 
your kitchen ! " 

"Has she?" said Archibald, dubi 
ously ; " really ! " 

" Yes, and she declares that your cook 
wastes enough every day to keep four 
families ! " 

"Really !" said Archibald ; "I ll have 
to look into it." 

"Y T ou won t save much out of what 
we pay," said Elvira, " and we don t 
want to stay if it doesn t pay you ; 
but " 

"Well?" 

"Mr. Archibald, we are poor." She 
looked down. 

"I m very sorry, I m sure I " he 
really did feel a compassion which found 
its way into his voice, and made it trem 
ble a little. 

"Aunt says you can t be making any 
money. Now, we don t think it is right 
to stay another day and be burdens, 
do you see ? " 

A solemn pause. 

"Isn t that what they are talking 
about so much now in the novels ? " he 
asked, at length. 

"What?" 

"The terrible New England con 
science ? " 

" Right is right and wrong is wrong, 
Mr. Archibald, disguise it how we may," 



and Elvira compressed her pretty lips 
firmly. 

Archibald puffed on his cigar, lazily. 

" I wasn t sure," he said, as if a doubt 
had crept into his mind. 

She glanced at him impatiently. 

"Can t you see how wrong it would 
be for us to stay here and enjoy all we 
have in your beautiful house, knowing 
that we were swindling you?" She 
stamped her foot. " Mercy ! " she added, 
half to herself, " what can you be made 
of?" 

He hastened to a display of rugged 
conscience, which relieved her. 

" Oh, of course, I see how wicked it 
would be if you did swindle; but I m 
making money ! Really I haven t spent 
the twenty dollars board -money yet. 
Oh, pray rest assured I shan t lose. I 
will tell you when I run behind." 

A great sense of relief seemed to come 
over the girl. 

"But it is all we can pay. I told father 
I would not ask for more. Father said 
he knew it would take more, but I said 
I would give up Art first." 

" Oh, I say ! " he protested. 

" And to-morrow I am going to begin 
taking lessons, but I ivill not call on 
father for another cent. He shan t be 
able to throw it in my face that it turned 
out as he said, and that I was wrong. 
When he and I dispute it always does 
turn out as he says this time it shan t." 

Archibald laughed a little. The poor 
fool, don t you know, was so captivated 
that every word, every action of the girl 
was music to him. The two weeks of 
observation had told on her dress. To 
night she wore a white muslin, elaborat 
ed with pretty ribbons. She no longer 
seemed especially rustic to him. He 
noticed that she was doing her hair now 
in the prevailing style. " By Jove ! " he 
said to himself, " I ll see that she comes 
out at the Patriarchs next winter ! " 

This was his highest earthly happi 
ness for a debutante. 

"I am going to make money," she 
went on ; " I m going to paint vases, 
plates, odds and ends, pot-boilers, you 
know, and so father shan t know what 
it costs." 

" Oh, by the way, if you do," he pre 
tended, lazily blowing out a ring of 
smoke, "I happen to know a fellow an 



248 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



old friend of mine who gives very fair 
prices for those sort of things. Now, I 
am sure he will take any gimcrack you 
may do." 

Somehow the word gimcrack dis 
pleased her. 

"My Art work has always been 
thought very pretty in East Village," 
she said. "It would never sell, but it 
was thought pretty. I used to long to 
help father and our family is so large, 
you know, four little brothers and two 
sisters younger than I am and now, if 
I only could get on, and help father! 
Oh, Mr. Archibald, you don t know how 
little law there is to go round in East 
Village ! " She heaved a deep sigh. 

He tried to appear sympathetic. 

" I know a fellow who gets a thousand 
dollars for a portrait, and he has only 
just commenced. You can t help but 
succeed, Miss Price, really ! " 

She gave him a grateful glance. 

" Oh, if I could ! " she said, anxiously. 
"I taught school one winter, but the 
pay was so small. And I ve tried you 
will laugh, Mr. Archibald, at my telling 
you these things but I ve tried story 
writing. I was so hopeful about it, and 
it took as many as ten rejections before 
I became convinced ; and now, if my 
Art fails me 

She gave a little fluttering sigh. 

" I think you have talent." 

" Perhaps it is only enthusiasm " 

"That amounts to the same thing. 
It will keep you up to your work. They 
used to tell me I had talent, but I had 
no enthusiasm, so I dropped it. I wish 
to encourage you," he added ; " I hope 
you will go on. It takes a lot of work, 
but you have just the right tempera 
ment. You will work. You will get 
on, and when you become celebrated, 
Miss Price, you won t forget your old 
friends?" 

He realized that it was a rather bold 
step forward, and he trembled for her 
reply. 

"I shall always recommend your 
house," she said, a little stiffly, making 
him feel more than ever her aristocratic 
superiority to landlords, " and I shall 
always remember your kindness. We 
went to at least six boarding-houses 
until we saw your sign we saw the 
landladies. Really, Mr. Archibald, you 



have no idea how vulgar and unartistic 
most of the houses were. There was al 
ways a disagreeable odor, as if somebody 
was frying something. If I do succeed, 
as I wish, and make friends, and get to 
be known, and all, you may be certain 
that I shan t forget you. I may organize 
an Art class, and take the whole house 
myself ! " 

He went no further. It was enough 
to him, as he sat opposite her in his 
evening dress, his rich opal, set with dia 
monds, flashing on his white shirt-front, 
his lawn tie, low shoes, white waistcoat 
everything in the latest and most ex 
pensive style it was enough for Mr. 
Jerome Archibald to sit there and smoke 
his delicate Havana, and reflect that he 
at least had her promise to do what 
she could to recommend his boarding- 
house ! 

The next day, at dinner, he again 
suggested, in an offhand way, that Miss 
Price should turn her attention to por 
trait-painting. Miss Perkins seriously 
objected at once. 

" Your father would never give his 
consent," she said. " There was old Mr. 
Raymond, who lived on the Poor Farm, 
because he found portrait-painting didn t 
pay." 

" Mr. Raymond painted dreadful, hid 
eous caricatures," said Elvira. " He. 
painted my mother s portrait, and father 
is always throwing him in my face. But 
I don t know. I have no one to begin 
on except aunt, and I have tried and 
tried, and I can t get anything but the 
expression of her spectacles." 

Even Aunt Perkins laughed at this a 
little. 

"Begin on me," ventured Archibald. 
" Call it the Portrait of an Ideal Land 
lord. " 

There was a little pause. The ladies 
rose without replying, and Archibald 
followed them into the drawing-room, 
feeling indefinitely that he had been too 
forward. As he lit his cigar and sat 
near an open window, feeling the cool 
southern breeze, he reflected that it was 
not improbable that in East Village the 
only landlord known to them was the 
keeper of a common tavern. It amused 
him to think of their primitive, quaint 
ignorance of city ways. He pictured 
the small life of East Village, Vt, the 



A NEl ENGLAND INGENUE. 



249 



narrow social horizon, the strange in 
terest in politics, the religious intoler 
ance, the " strong " views on the temper 
ance question which obtained there, and 
which leaked out from Miss Perkins as 
the days went on into August. The easy 
sense of accommodation to their new 
surroundings also amused him. 

Archibald returned to the portrait. 
" I d rawther like to have one for the 
dining-room," he said ; " I think it would 
interest some of my boarders when they 
come back next winter. I could give 
you no end of sittings, Miss Price " 

Elvira exhibited some hesitancy : 
"Well, I might try," she said. "But 
I m not at all good at hair " 

" Shave off my mustache if you like," 
said the infatuated Archibald, with a 
grimace. 

The ladies changed the subject de 
corously. It was plain that Archibald s 
little advances toward an intimacy, to 
be derived from portrait-painting, were 
being met in rather an unencouraging 
spirit, don t you know ! The next day 
he invited them, as an agreeable diver 
sion, to visit Coney Island ; but Elvira 
made an excuse that she had no time 
for " pleasuring." They seemed, indeed, 
to have few pleasures. The morning 
walk in Central Park was given up ; Miss 
Perkins spent the greater part of the 
time when Elvira was at the Art School 
in riding to and fro, apparently, upon 
street -cars. One day she came home 
very late to dinner, saying that she had 
discovered the " Belt Line." While wait 
ing her return for dinner, Archibald had 
an agreeable tete-d-tete with Elvira. 



IV. 



HE was growing more and more in 
love with this self-contained, charming, 
young New Englander. It had come to 
a time when he felt that he must speak. 
They had been at No. 41 now these four 
weeks, aunt and niece, and yet they had 
managed to preserve their distance. He 
was no nearer than the day they arrived. 

He reflected that the pleasant little 
daily comedy which had amused him so 
entirely would have to be given up the 
instant he made known to her his state 
of feeling. But at the same time he felt 



he could act out the equivocation no 
longer. He must, as a gentleman, make 
a clean breast of his deception. Archi 
bald had seen a great deal of women, 
and he believed that he understood 
them pretty well. He believed he un 
derstood Miss Price well enough to 
reckon upon the flattery of her sudden 
fascination that first day, for him, as the 
cause of his deceit. He planned to bold 
ly tell her this, one day, while they were 
waiting for Miss Perkins to revolve 
around the "Belt Line." But Elvira 
turned the conversation against his will. 
She seemed to have remarkable intui 
tions, this strange creature ! Perhaps 
she had an intuition then. At any rate, 
she announced their determination to 
return to East Village the following Sat 
urday. 

"Father writes that his ague is no 
better that I must come home," she 
said. "There are, besides, the pre 
serves " 

Archibald expressed no surprise. " If 
you go," he said, "I think I ll take a run 
up there also. I have the greatest curi 
osity about East Village." 

" There is nothing it is dreadfully I 
wouldn t have you visit East Village for 
all the world ! " 

"Why?" 

" Because " she replied, sedately. 

Kecognizing this as a sufficient reply, 
Archibald took a seat on the sofa near 
her. She was in one of her pretty, soft, 
white muslins, tied, this evening, with 
ribbons of the very latest shade of fash 
ionable apple-green. He had noticed 
the steady growth of fashion in the girl s 
appearance, but he was not quite pre 
pared for the dozen silver bangles, which 
jingled as she raised her hand to her 
hair. She had a pretty arm and hand, 
and were it not for the bangles, which 
somehow altered the current of his 
thought, he had nerved himself up to 
the point of taking, or trying to take, her 
hand in his, and telling her in a manly 
way, his story. The bangles, however, 
don t you know, diverted him. He could 
not be serious. He laughed. It was as 
if he had happened upon a wood nymph 
in seven-button kid gloves ! She misin 
terpreted his laughter, believing that he 
intended to ridicule the pastoral delights 
of East Village. 



250 



A NEU/ ENGLAND INGENUE. 



"I m not ashamed of Vermont," she 
said, drawing away a little. "I can t 
bear to have it laughed at. You would 
laugh at East Village, Mr. Archibald 
you laugh at everything. You are not 
sincere. You have too much of the city 
in you too much of its glitter and 
She caught his eyes directed laugh 
ingly upon her bangles, and blushed 
guiltily. 

"Time works its changes, don t you 
know," he said. "Even you, Miss Elvira, 
are a little affected." 

"I hate myself for it," she said; "I 
do find myself growing to like things I 
never cared for before. I think of what 
I have on from morning to night," she 
confessed, guiltily, with an imploring 
glance at her landlord. 

"Can the dead dulness of midsum 
mer in the city have wrought so won 
drous a change ? " he laughed. " How 
very gay, really, you will be next 
winter." 

" Seriously," said Elvira, " I look for 
ward to a visit to East Village as a com 
plete change and rest. When I think 
of the white, dead walls of our meeting 
house, I am glad ; when I think of the 
lack of color in everybody up there, it 
makes me glad ; when I think of the 
plainness of everything, the simpleness, 
the truth of everything, I m glad to go 
back. But don t you don t come up to 
Vermont, Mr. Archibald. Really, please, 
don t." 

Again Archibald felt impelled to seize 
her white, pretty hand, and tell his 
story. He had never come to so inti 
mate a point before. What chance had 
he ever to come so near again ? All 
that his mother and sisters could write 
would have no effect upon him now. 
All that his friends at the club would 
say, all that his Aunt Newbold would 
say his Aunt Newbold was the formid 
able dragon of his family nothing, he 
felt sure, would alter his mind. He had 
deliberated a month, he would deliber 
ate no more. Besides, she was going 
away ; perhaps if he did not speak his 
opportunity would never again occur. 
He paled a little as he was about to 
open his lips. 

Bother ! 

The chalk-faced maid entered with a 
card on a silver tray. 



V. 



ME. JEROME ARCHIBALD had very few 
hatreds ; people whom he disliked he 
carefully avoided. Being fastidious to 
an extreme, he had few friends, but he 
likewise had no enemies. He had, how 
ever, a certain cousin who lived in Bos 
ton, who had in some way early offend 
ed him, and for whom he continued to 
have a most inexplicable dislike. Hun- 
newell Hollis was a Harvard man, who 
had been a great swell at college, and 
who was considered " clevah." He was 
a year or two older than Archibald, and 
he usually presumed a little upon his 
age and upon his superior education. 
It was Hunnewell Hollis s card which 
was brought up on the silver tray. 

Archibald impatiently rose and went 
down to the reception-room. There he 
found Hollis walking up and down the 
room, apparently in some excitement. 

" Jerry, this won t do, old man ! 
heard ladies voices up-stairs ! Twont 
do ! Lucky I ran down with the yacht. 
Now I m going to carry you off with 
me. By the way, Somers, and Billy 
Nahant, and Jack Chadwick are here, 
and I took the liberty to invite them 
here overnight knew you were alone 
knew you would be glad to put them 
up." 

"By Jove, you do me great honor! 
Unfortunately I haven t room for you 
I ve only just let the house taken by 
Jove ! I must take in the sign." 

Archibald s face betrayed no sign of 
his justifiable prevarication. 

"Well, then, as it is dinner-time I ll 
stay to dinner with you." 

"Sorry, very sorry. But the ladies 
who have taken the house would think 
it very odd " 

" Well, how in the devil are you din 
ing with them, Jerry ? " 

" They asked me, in order to discuss 
the terms. A few details before signing 
the lease, don t you know ! " 

" Well, it puts me in a rather awkward 
position ; I ve left the fellows your ad 
dress ; they ll be here shortly." 

"Why don t you head em off?" sug 
gested Archibald, coolly. 

Mr. Hunnewell Hollis gave his cousin 
a glance of anger. " The whole thing is 
rather fishy," he said, suspiciously. " I 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



251 



trust, Jerry, for the honor of the fam- 

ily " 

Archibald never quite detested his 
cousin so much before. 

"There are a great many adventur 
esses about, they are on the lookout for 
rich young men like you, Jerry," and 
Hunnewell Hollis, giving his cousin a 
rather gravely serious nod, took up his 
hat and cane and departed. 

Archibald went directly upstairs. He 
heard a rustle of a dress against the 
furniture. Had Elvira been listening ? 
He hoped not. 



VI. 



ADVENTURESS ! How that odious word 
rang in his ears as he entered the room 
where the sweet primrose face was still 
in its corner of the sofa. He swore he 
would never write to, nor speak to, 
Hunnewell Hollis again. He had done 
with him forever. Yet, had he heard 
the rustle of her dress ? It gave him a 
slightly disagreeable sensation to think 
that it were possible. Elvira Price ap 
parently had not moved from her seat. 
She was in the same pretty attitude in 
which he had left her, leaning back, 
easily, against the corner of the sofa, her 
hands crossed in her lap. As he entered 
it seemed to him that she was studying 
his face. 

" I was so anxious about aunt," she 
said. " I went out to the stairs think 
ing I heard her come in. Do you know, 
it isn t the Belt Line only ; she goes to 
a mission a boys mission. She has 
taken the greatest interest in it, all the 
teachers have gone away for the sum 
mer. It is in an out-of-the-way part of 
the city, and it worries me." 

Archibald hesitated a moment, then 
he said : 

"Did you hear the row with my 
cousin ? He was very impertinent ; but 
all Bostonians are impertinent." 

The name Bostonian seemed to give 
her a slight sensation. 

"You have been in Boston?" he 
asked. 

"N Yes, and I, too, found Boston 
ians impertinent." She gave him an 
appealing glance ; then she added, after 
a pause, " I find New York quite differ 
ent." 



Miss Perkins came in shortly after, 
much fatigued, and Archibald after din 
ner went over to the club, where he fell 
in with Hunnewell Hollis again, in spite 
of the fact that he did his best to avoid 
him. Hunnewell had found his yachting 
friends, and they had had a very good 
dinner. They were all very talkative 
Somers, Billy Nahant, and Jack Chad- 
wick. They were in flannel suits and 
yachting caps, and each was bronzed 
and sunburned to a fine copper hue. 

" What is the name of the people who 
have taken your house ? " asked Hunne 
well, bluntly, after he had introduced 
Archibald to his friends. 

"Miss Perkins and her niece, Miss 
Elvira Price," replied Archibald, coldly. 

Instantly Billy Nahant pricked up 
his ears. " Why," he said, " isn t she 
an actress ? Didn t she play in Boston 
last winter?" 

" Who ? " asked Archibald. 

" Why, Elvira Price. She made quite 
a hit, I believe her debut too at the 
Boston Theatre. She played to crowded 
houses exactly two weeks ; at the end of 
that time, to everyone s surprise, she 
went home to Vermont, whence she 
came, and she calmly gave up the stage 
forever ! " 

Archibald s face was a study. 

" Did you know you were letting your 
mother s house to actresses?" asked 
Hollis, with a sneer. 

"Miss Price is probably a different 
person from the one to whom Mr. 
Nahant has reference," said Archibald, 
coldly. 

"I remember the girl," said Jack 
Chadwick. "She was very young and 
beautiful, and fitted her part admirably. 
She made an excellent ingenue. She 
held herself well not at all gushing 
don t you know but poetic, spirituelle. 
She played in A Scrap of Paper some 
picked-up company with her. She car 
ried the play very well. I have often 
wondered what became of her." 

"So this is the creature who has 
rented your house, and whom you dined 
with to-night," sneered Hollis ; " an in 
genue, indeed ! " 

" Miss Price is a lady not a creat 
ure, " said Archibald, haughtily. "As 
far as I have seen, she can only honor 
our house by remaining under its roof." 



252 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



And Archibald bowed stiffly, and took 
his leave in the midst of an embarrassed 
silence. 

vn. 

HE preferred not to see Elvira again 
before she took her departure for Ver 
mont the next day. Her aunt remained 
im the city to look after her "mission 
work." Archibald presented her, as the 
gift of a rich, unknown friend, fifty dol 
lars their board money to send some 
of her boys into the country. After 
Elvira s departure he became very de 
spondent. Elvira s image was broken 
to him, and while she had not become 
in his mind quite an adventuress, yet 
she had concealed her former life from 
him. She had deceived him. 

But as the days went by and he 
missed her, he found that he must speak 
to Miss Perkins about Elvira s acting, or 
go through a serious case of nervous 
prostration. He said very bluntly to 
her, one day, at dinner : 

"So I hear your niece is a great ac 
tress." 

Miss Perkins gave him a quick, sharp 
glance. 

" She has acted," she replied. " But 
Elvira Price had too much conscience 
to act long." 

He gave a sigh of relief. 

"She acted in Boston, because she 
was bound to try it. She wanted to try 
everything everything that would keep 
her father out of the poor-house and 
educate the family. But acting, Mr. 
Archibald, is a dreadful business ! As 
soon as Elvira saw into it a little she 
quit. The air wasn t pure enough, 
somehow, for her. Elvira, she needs 
awful pure air ! " 

Again Archibald felt a certain glow of 
satisfaction steal over him. 

" Do you know," he said, after a suit 
able pause, "I am more than half-in 
clined to make her angry by running up 
to East Village." 

Miss Perkins gave a little quinzied 
laugh of satisfaction. She was begin 
ning to like Archibald very much. 

" It would startle Elvira ; but she d be 
pleased," ventured the thin old maid. 
"She d be pleased in spite of every 
thing ! " 



A few days later Archibald, after half 
a day s journey, found himself in Ver 
mont. As the train drew near East 
Village the mountains grew higher and 
the scenery wilder. He could see the 
great August moon roll itself above the 
high crest of the mountains to the west. 
Though Archibald was far from super 
stitious, he was pained to observe that 
he saw the moon over his left shoulder. 

It was late when he stumbled from 
the steps of the car upon the wooden 
platform of the station at East Village. 
It was dark, also, and to him, extraor 
dinarily cold. He groped his way, shiv 
ering, past a blinding reflector, where 
half a dozen men in cow-hide boots were 
examining a list of invoices, to what 
he could dimly outline as the village 
stage. No one spoke to him, and he 
found that no one seemed to care 
whither he, the sole passenger, was car 
ried. He had visions of an unpleasant 
nature, of being deposited inside the 
coach in a shed or stable to await the 
morning. He felt the stage pitch and 
toss for twenty minutes like a bark 
upon an angry sea. When all was still 
again he found that the driver had 
drawn up before a white-pillared, old- 
fashioned house, which stood a little 
back from the street. At the side of 
the gate a small wooden building bore 
the sign, which was illuminated by the 
stage-lamp, 

Ephraim B. Price, Attorney at Law. 

"Oh," said Archibald, " this is El 
vira s house, and the driver is delivering 
my box of flowers." 

He leaned forward, hoping to catch 
sight of the fair young girl when the 
front-door opened to take in the box. 
But he was disappointed. The impa 
tient driver had merely left it on the 
steps of the high, white-pillared portico, 
after giving the door-bell a vigorous 
pull. 

Then followed a further few minutes 
of pitching and tossing, and the stage 
drew up before the tavern-door. A row 
of a dozen men, whose hats were drawn 
down over their eyes, and whose feet 
fell instantaneously from the rail to the 
floor as the coach drew up, came for 
ward, and one of them betrayed a desire 
to grasp Archibald s in his own horny 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



253 



hand. " Guess yell stop overnight ? 
Th ain t no other place. Sprised to see 
a stranger to-night, tew. Will you go 
in an sign will you, sir ? " 

"So this uncouth ruffian," thought 
Archibald, "is Elvira s ideal landlord! 
No wonder she distrusts me ! " 

"We re local temp rance," said the 
landlord. " An no licker s been seen to 
East Village for nigh six years. Not a 
drop, sir, an it s bustin my ho-tel high- 
er n a kite. Yes, it is ! " 

Archibald expressed commiseration. 

"As I tell d Squar Price, yeou high- 
toned, ristocratic temp rance folk ll 
hurt East Village when ye close the ho 
tel ! Why, when a gent comes up here 
fr the city, he wants to be able to call 
fer a glass o gin or a glass o whiskey s 
often s he likes." 

Archibald thought he detected the 
faint smell of liquor upon the landlord s 
breath as he talked, and it occurred to 
him that his obtrusively free-and-easy- 
manner was the result of a secret viola 
tion of the prohibitory local license law. 
" Bein fr the city, as you be," said the 
landlord, lowering his voice to a whis 
per, and placing his heavy hand on 
Archibald s shoulder familiarly, " I cale - 
late you re cold an ready for a tidy 
drink. I calc late I m talkin to a gent 
as is used ter lickerin up, even ef tis 
agin the law ? " To humor him, Archi 
bald admitted that he had no stringent 
prohibitory sentiments. 

" Well then, good ! Jest you f oiler 
me!" 

Archibald followed the landlord out 
into the hotel yard, where the latter 
pulled up the flaps of a cellar-door. 
Hearing the creaking sound, and taking 
it for an admonitory signal, the row of 
men on the hotel piazza, who had re 
sumed their seats, again dropped their 
feet on the floor, rose, and came out 
into the yard in Indian file, in perfect 
silence. Archibald followed his land 
lord do\yn into the darkness of the 
cellar, where, beneath the dim light of 
a solitary candle he perceived a cask 
with a wooden spigot, and near it half 
a dozen tin cups. The men filed down 
the steps behind him. "You ve heerd 
o apple jack?" asked the landlord, in a 
whisper. 

Archibald nodded. 



" Drink that, then ! " and the landlord 
handed him a cupful of the beverage. 
It was enough to intoxicate him. He 
drank but a very little ; as he saw the 
other men were waiting, he passed the 
cup on to them. 

" Welcome to East Village, stranger," 
said one of the men, drinking. " Be you 
up ere a-sellin marchandize ? " 

" Oh, no ! " 

" Be you come to see the Squar ? " 

Well perhaps yes." 

" Wa l, this is a dead give away ! " and 
the men laughed noisily, as rustics will. 
" Don t mention this ere cider to Squar 
Price ! " 

The next morning was delicious, the 
air clear and smelling of the mountains. 
The mist hung above the distant river, 
and a line of hills showed their green 
wooded outline above it. As Archi 
bald breathed the sweet country air, he 
stepped more briskly, felt less of his 
city malaria, drew into his lungs a long 
breath of the fresh, invigorating sum 
mer wind, which seemed to come to him 
across the high upland, from such a vast 
distance. 

He came to the old colonial gate and 
entered. The Hon. Ephraim B. Price 
was just at the moment sauntering down 
the gravel path from his house to his 
law office. As he saw Archibald enter, 
he came forward somewhat more rapidly. 
t He was a man of large frame, gaunt 
rather than spare, of prominent cheek 
bones, of lengthy chin-beard. His eyes 
were very keen, and his entire expres 
sion was one of patient alertness as if 
there was very little to be alert over, 
but a deep necessity of keeping up a 
reputation. Archibald learned after 
ward how indefatigable a partisan, and 
how strenuous a believer in the Republi 
can party the Hon. Ephraim was. 

"Sir,"" he said, after greeting Archi 
bald, and looking with a grin of pity 
upon his engraved card a grin directed 
chiefly to the " Mr." before Archibald s 
name " you are Elvira s landlord down 
to New York tell me, how is your city 
and State going, do you think ? " 

Archibald felt taken aback. Politics 
were something of which he knew noth 
ing. He was but barely aware that it 
was a presidential year. In the city he 



254 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



kept severely out of politics, as hardly 
the employment of gentlemen. 

" I I think it will go Democratic." 

A more violent frown than before. 
" If I thought so, sir ; if I imagined so ; 
if for one instant I believed that what 
we fought for during the war Eh, 
Elvira ? Here is Mr. Archibald ! " 

Then the Hon. Ephraim turned ab 
ruptly and entered his office, where, it 
may be added, he sat for the next hour, 
his feet on the cold stove before him, 
meditating where his next fee was to 
come from, and breaking out with an 
occasional invective against the wicked 
democracy. 

Before the old gentleman was a square 
window which looked out over the town. 
All day long he sat before this, as upon 
a watch-tower a censor of village mor 
als and deportment. 

"Father is so interested in the elec 
tion," apologized Elvira. "But how 
strange to see you here ; and I told you 
not to ! " 

She held a small gray kitten in her 
arms, which she stroked slowly. She 
was still in his favorite white muslin, 
and she had a gentle, sweet flush of 
pleasure in her face. 

" I came, Miss Price because don t 
you know I aw missed you," and he 
smiled. 

"You are very good. How is Aunt 
Perkins ? Did she bring her mission 
boys to your house ? She has written, 
that a friend of yours has given fifty 
dollars for the boys. Do tell me about 
it. Is she well ? Have any more board 
ers come ? " 

She plied him with questions as they 
strolled toward the white-pillared porti 
co. The house was old and shabby, but 
he did not notice it. The place was run 
down and impoverished, but it seemed 
very beautiful to him, for he noticed 
that she wore one of his roses in her 
lustrous hair. 

Entering the hallway he met some of 
the younger brothers and sisters, and 
felt a sudden strange affection spring 
up in his heart for them. Elvira took 
him through into a gloomy parlor, 
lined with plain hair -cloth furniture. 
On the walls were several portraits. 
"This was my mother," said the girl, 
affectionately, pointing to what Archi 



bald felt to be a hideous daub, a red- 
faced woman in black, against a green 
background. It was the portrait by 
Mr. Raymond, whose abode was now 
the poor-house. " She died only two 

years ago " 

" I fancy if she had lived," said Archi 
bald, " you would not have tried the 
9" 



She looked at him calmly a moment. 

" That Boston man has told you ? " 

"Yes, I learned the fact from his 
friends." 

"I shall never again." There was a 
despairing pathos in her voice. 

" Elvira," he said, slowly, " as I see it 
I think it was very noble of you to 
try." 

Then, unaccountably to him, she burst 
into tears. 

" It is what I love what I long for 
to be an actress a great actress," she 
sobbed. " But I can t I can t ! I can t 
exist with those creatures those horri 
ble men who hang about you ! No one 
knows what I endured ! No one knows 
what, too, I gave up when I left the 
stage and came home ; but I had to." 

He leaned forward in sympathy. 

" You may say what you will, but there 
is no Art like acting, and nothing so fine 
as applause. Oh, that I could bring my 
self to do it to be strong enough to do 
it to save our fortunes to help father. 
You little know how I have suffered, 
Mr. Archibald." 

" By Jove I I quite like you for it ! " 

He was on his feet at her side. Im 
pulsively he bent down and whispered 
close to her ear. "Let me be your 
audience the rest of my life ! Act for 
me let me applaud everything any 
thing you do, my darling ! always ! al 
ways ! " 

She put him away. 

" I don t feel I have acted just right 
with you," she said. " I should have told 
you that I was or might be again 
an actress," she spoke, coldly. "I don t 
believe you want them in your boarding- 
house. They are not always desirable, 
I believe ! " Elvira s eyes were fastened 
on the floor. 

Archibald paced to and fro in the par 
lor. " Confound her odd New England 
conscience ! " he muttered to himself. 
Seizing her hands, he cried, passionately, 



A NEl ENGLAND INGENUE. 



255 



"I, too, must confess. Elvira, I loved 
you that first day you came. / loved 
you ! Therefore I let you think it was 
a boarding-house." 

" And it isn t it s your own private 
Oh, Mr. Archibald ! " 

She sat and looked at him with a hor 
rified stare. The full truth of his im 
position began to steal upon her gradu 
ally. Then her face fell and she averted 
it, as she felt that a fatal untruth had 
come between them. She rose quietly 
and left him standing near her. She 
went upstairs to her room and threw 
herself upon her bed in an agony of 
tears. 

Through it all Archibald had merely 
smiled ! 

vn. 

BUT when she left him he felt rather 
weak for a moment, as if his city mal 
aria had returned upon him with a 
double force. As Elvira showed no 
signs of returning, he amused himself 
by turning over the leaves of the family 
photograph album. Face by face re 
vealed the stern, set, arid, Puritan feat 
ures, the hard, determined chins, and the 
" firmness " which, in the person of the 
Hon. Ephraim, he felt still dominated 
and controlled the public affairs of East 
Village. He threw down the album 
with a feeling of impotent rage against 
the survival of this colonial "narrow 
ness." as he liked to call it. He walked 
out of the house and wandered, much 
crestfallen and full of malaria, along the 
village street toward the hotel. A great 
many farm wagons were tied along the 
sidewalk, and there were numbers of 
fresh-cheeked country girls walking in 
threes and fours, and sweeping the side 
walk as they went. Upon a slight eleva 
tion stood a white wooden meeting-house, 
with a white steeple, and it gave him a 
chill even on that warm morning to look 
at it it looked so cold. Small groups of 
hard-featured farmers in fur caps stood 
on the corners of the streets discussing, 
presumably, the crops. He wondered if 
the fur caps were needed in that arid, 
bleak region to keep warm the native s 
sense of Right and Wrong? He made 
his way out, beneath some beautiful elms, 
into a small, old-fashioned burying- 



ground, where he discovered that "err 
ing sinners" apparently comprised the 
only element of those who were re 
quested to "Pause and Read" Feeling 
himself to be now, for some reason, 
a distinctly immoral person, he read 
some of the quaint epitaphs, to which 
he was invited, in a spirit of humility, 
which presently changed to amusement. 
In death, as in life, the hard, stern old 
village characters preserved on their 
headstones a fund of grim humor for 
the " sinner," which in Archibald s in 
stance made him smile. "Oh," he 
sighed to himself, "I long to take her 
away from all this sort of thing for 
ever ! " 

He took a long walk in the afternoon, 
and returned to the hotel to find a 
coldly worded note from Elvira inviting 
him around to tea. He removed the 
stains of his walk, and dressed himself 
with his usual care. He found Elvira 
waiting for him beneath the high white 
pillars, in an unbecoming, and as it 
seemed to him, forbidding, dress of 
black. Her face seemed unusually stem 
and relentless. There were traces of 
tears in her red eyelids, but the tears 
were dried away now, and her eyes were 
very bright and hard. 

"Don t say anything now. Father 
feels very deeply about it. We have 
had a long talk. When he heard of the 
of the unfortunate house affair he 
was so angry I could hardly pacify him." 

Archibald s heart sank within him. 
He fairly shivered. 

" He said that he did not want me to 
lower my standard," continued Elvira, 
in her clear, musical, passionless voice. 
" And I told him that he need have no 
fears. I wanted to see you first, and 
tell you. Let us not have any feeling 
about it." 

" Any feeling ! " exclaimed Archibald. 
" Wiry how can we help it ? " 

"Let us act as if we had never under 
stood one another. I will go back to 
the city with you, and Aunt Perkins and 
I will find some other place at once." 

" Go back with me and expect me 
to show no feeling ! Elvira, this is pre 
posterous ! " 

" Then I will go back alone." She 
compressed her lips, just as he had ob 
served her father do. 



256 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



"I beg pardon, Elvira, do you mean 
can you mean that I can never I can 
never hope ? " 

She nodded her pretty flower -like 
head gravely. " Come in to tea, won t 
you? " she said, coolly. "I want father 
to hear you talk about Art." 

He turned on his heel. At last he, 
too, was angry. 

"Thanks, awfully," he said. "But if 
I go back to the hotel now, I shall just 
have time to pack my valise and catch 
the evening train." 

He walked rapidly away, leaving her 
standing upon the white-pillared por 
tico, looking with pure, sweet, upturned 
face, like a saint who has for all time 
renounced the world, the flesh, and the 
devil. Had he looked back, Mr. Jerome 
Archibald s tender heart would have 
been touched by her attitude ; he would 
have returned, and, against her will, 
clasped her in his arms and covered her 
pale lips with warm kisses. It might 
have melted her high "standard" a 
little. But he let a night intervene 
without seeing her, and the entering 
wedge of her high sense of duty did its 
work before morning. He determined 
to remain another day and make a 
further trial. When he called the next 
day she was obdurate. "Love cannot 
be built upon deceit and untruth," she 
said, sententiously. " I was not frank, 
you were not. It is better that we 
should part. I could never hold up my 
head I could never face the world. I 
know what they would call me. They 
would call me an adventuress! and 
they would hate me for being success 
ful. Yes your mother, your sisters 
everyone." 

"But you were perfectly innocent 
about it, Elvira." 

There was a little pause. 

"I, too, was innocent. I meant no 
more than to have you near me, where 
I could learn to know you love you 
and now, really, it seems as if you had 
built up a mountain of ice between us, 
don t you know." 

She merely shook her head. 

When Archibald returned to the city 
his malaria compelled him to go away 
again almost immediately to Newport. 



There, a few weeks later, his agent wrote 
him that he had succeeded in renting 
the house "at an exorbitant figure to a 
very rich tenant without children " 
thus fulfilling his mother s conditions to 
the letter. He went back to the city, re 
covered in health, to pack up a few per 
sonal effects, and found to his surprise 
that Miss Perkins and her niece were, 
at the moment he arrived, in the house. 
They had taken board on Ninth Street, 
and had gone up to take a last look 
of the charming interior where, Elvira 
guiltily acknowledged, life had been " so 
wrongly pleasant." He found Elvira 
holding a fan in her hand and seated 
pensively in an old Venetian chair in 
what was formerly her studio. As he 
entered the room she rose, blushing a 
most vivid red, and as rapidly turning 
pale again. 

" Mr. Archibald ! " she exclaimed. "I 
did not know you were in the city ! " 

"I have been here only an hour," he 
said, stiffly. 

" It is time for us to go ; " and she 
turned to the door. 

" Elvira ! " His face looked sick and 
ghastly. 

" Well ? " She drew herself up very 
coldly. 

" Are you made of stone ? " 

"Mr. Archibald, what can you mean?" 

" My child, you are capable of grind 
ing one who loves you into powder like 
er a millstone ! " 

" Aunt Perkins ! " she called out, " let 
us go ! " 

"No," he cried, "I will not let you 
go. You shall hear me ! I love you ! 
Do you hear ? And you shall not leave 
this house until you say you will be my 
wife ! I know you care for me every 
thing tells me so but you will wear 
your own and my heart out with your 
hard, cruel conscience ! What brought 
you here ? You loved me ! Why have 
you been sitting in this room ? You 
love me, Elvira I know it I feel 
it!" 

Gently he drew her to him and 
kissed her. She laid her head on his 
shoulder and breathed a little contented 
sigh. "/ don t think this is right !" 
she said. 




A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 

By H. C. Bunner. 



THE VESTIBULE TEAIN. 

THEY order, said I, this business 
more cheaply in France and therewith 
I pressed a coin of the value of two shil 
lings d pen pres into the hand of the 
Negro Porter. 

Ay, you may well say so, Sir, cried 
the Gentleman by my side twas an 
evil day for me that I left Barbizon ! 

Indeed, said I, for the matter of 
that, I know not Barbizon, but I can well 
conceive that if a gentleman be not con 
tent in France, he is ill to please or 
perhaps I might better say ill at pleasing 
and I m sure you are in no such case. 
Nay, I am in no doubt that you have 
souvenirs of Barbizon wherever it may 
be of the most agreeable sort. 

I have, indeed, he responded, with 
a sigh tis the true home of Art. 

You are then, said I, an amateur of 
art? At this, I thought, he was some 
what chill d. 

I am a painter, he responded, with 
some dignity with as much dignity, in 
fact, as he might have shown had he 
been an amateur and I had called him a 
Painter! You are a painter of land 
scapes ? said I. 

But no, he told me, he was a painter 
of figures. 

I would you had stopped awhile in 
England, then, said I, on your way from 
Barbizon you might have seen some 
truant works of art that had escaped 
from Barbizon without knowing it. 

Twould have pleased you, said I, to 
see the forty-two portraits of the once 



famous Kit-Kat Club, that were last at 
Water Oakley. They were painted by 
Sir Godfrey Kneller, who was accounted 
no mean proficient in his art entendu 
qu il n avoit jamais vu Barbizon. 

Ah, cried he, contemptuously 
Kneller and Sir Joshua Reynolds, per 
haps ? Perhaps, said I Ah, rnon cher, 
he continued, nous avons change tout 
cela. Twas cruel, said I. All true art 
is cruel, he answer d. 

I will not say, however, he went on, 
that Sir Joshua was wholly off the right 
track he had moments a certain feel 
ing sometimes or perhaps I should 
not say a feeling precisely but the 
feeling of a feeling and modelling, of 
course and here he stuck out his 
thumb, as if he would have press d it in 
a pat of butter, and made a movement 
that I took to indicate, or in some way 
hint, the convexity of an imaginary body. 
He modell d well, went on the Painter, 

but he had no jump he lacked that ! 

and here he delivered himself of a 
gesture so strange that it quite passes 
my poor power of description but 
twould have served to beckon a cham 
bermaid to tell a man to go to the d 1 
or twould have suited as well had he 
said, " Off with his head! So much for 
Buckingham I " 

I perceive, said I, when he had made 
an end of this remarkable discourse, that 
I have much to learn about art for I 
should shock you should I confide to 
you the simplicity of my thoughts about 
Sir Joshua. I wish, indeed, that we 
might continue this conversation where 



258 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



we might be more at our ease for I 
vow this is no less than the third time 
that I have been interrupted in my lis 
tening by the necessity of feeing this 
Porter. 

With all my heart ! rejoined the 
Painter come to my studio whenever 
it shall be convenient for you and so 
saying he gave me his card. 

And here the Conductor shouted 
"New York !" and La Fleur seized my 
gripsack, exclaiming : 

" Forty minutes late !" 

Upon my word, said I to myself, if 
I am but forty minutes late, and not 
thrice forty years, I am much mistaken ! 



NEW YOEK. 

The Opera Comique. 

I am in the mood, said I to the 
Cleric at my hotel, to see a play. Ka- 
joola, said he, is your affair. Tis an 
opera comique, with the best of music, 
and you shall see the prettiest women 
in New York. 

I ant mieux ! said I I would not 
paint the lily yet I vow there is a sweet 
concomitancy between a pretty face and 
a pretty tune, and no song was ever the 
less sweet for coming from rosy lips. 
I bet you, he said. Tis not a matter for 
a wager, quoth I. 

Following the Clerk s directions, I 
found myself seated in a vast theatre 
which for its marble stairs and its gilt 
walls might, I thought, have called it 
self a palace. The musicians were play 
ing the ouverture as I came in. 

Presently the curtain rose and 

Pudour! O Native modesty! O ye 
gentle Nymphs of Diana, ye who once 
cast the shield of your own loveliness 
between Actceon and your Mistress ! I 
dare say Actceon scarce noted the differ 
ence shall I tell you what I saw ? 

Just heavens ! I blush while I 
write it some thirty hussies marched 
on the Stage clad shall I thus abuse 
thee, thou good old English participle ? 
clad, then, in silks and velvets but 
as tight and close to their forms as if 
each were a harlequin or an acrobat ! 

"What is this ? said I to the spec 
tator next me. Tis the Pages Chorus, 



answer d he. But wait until you shall 

see them as the Amazons! 1 had no 

mind to wait I went incontinently out 
The man at the door would have 
stopp d me Return check ? quoth he. 
Nay, friend, said I I have had my check, 
and am even now de retour. He look d 
at me as if I were a lunatick. 

Now I hold that a pretty woman 

is worth all the other pretty things in 
this world So I cannot bear to see this 
Temple of human Beauty so degraded, 
and profaned. I had as lief put breeches 
on the Venus de Medicis and make a 
trollop of her in a twinkling. 

The essence of beauty, said I to 

the Doorkeeper is the fillip" it gives to 
the imagination and no woman is so 
fair as our fancy of her. I love a trim 
waist but it must be in a neat bodice 
a graceful .... walk but tis best 
revealed in the undulations of a petti 
coat that is neither prudish nor trop co 
quet a glove may be the most seductive 
thing in the world, if it go but to the 
elbow or make but a discreet sally up a 
white arm but to stretch the suitability 
of a glove to all imaginable purposes 
to dress a woman as you bind a book 
as an upholsterer covers a chair tis 
a foul profanation, said I. Do you know 
where you live ? asked the Doorkeeper. 
In Castaly, said I. I have never been 
there, said the Doorkeeper. 



NEW YOEK. 

THE STUDIO. 

Why should I I said to myself 
condemn one art because another has 
displeased me ? As well say that all med 
icine is quackery, because I have had an 
encounter with a Veterinary. And with 
this thought in my mind, I set forth to 
visit the Painter. His atelier for so I 
found twas call d was in a vast build 
ing, which many others of his craft in 
habited in common To what end? 
thought I. Now, were the Patrons of art 
thus hived, twere easy to step in and 
pick your patron. But this assembling 
in competition of the patroniz d has to 
me an air pas trop comme-il-faut. 

I found my Painter hous d in a 
mighty fine place. But in the furnishing 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



259 



of it he must have counted on a prodig 
ious floor and clean forgot the other five 
plane spaces for he had so many rugs 
that he had been forced to hang them 
on his walls and indeed, upon his 
lounges and his chairs twas a miracle, 
if a Turk had known where to sit cross- 
legged. 

But why babble I of rugs, when the 
fairest Model in the world stood, beau 
tifying a Grecian dress in a shrine 
or so I conceiv d it at the end of the 
room ? it was at the OTHER end. I re 
flected on the way that Life presents 
us her chances. 

I am glad to see you, said the 
Painter. 

I am glad to see said I. 

Mademoiselle Didon said he, pre 
senting me but I ll be hang d if your 
name have not escaped me. Monsieur 
Alors, said I. 

Je ne vous scavois j)as francois I 
did not take you for a Frenchman, he 
said. 

Parfois, I answer d ; now and then 
but tis at most a case of ccelum non ani- 
mum he look d surly my Latin was 
too much for him. You will not mind 
if I paint while we talk, he said Made 
moiselle, you have lost your pose ! 

Now I will engage that Mademoiselle 
had not lost her. . . . pose for 
whatever pose she took, twas lovely to 
look upon. But it was true, that the ges 
ture he had set her, she had as clean 
lost on my appearance, as I had lost 
my nationality. 

Now she essay d to slip back into her 
proper posture She stood poised in an 
attitude of indication, as who should say 

voild see there. Quoif I do not 

know ; but it was pretty to think that 
there was something there that inter 
ested her. I stepp d forward, and sup 
ported her outstretch d index finger 
with my own. Mademoiselle is fatigued, 
said I. With pointing at nothing, Mon 
sieur, said she. C est une haute distinc 
tion, said I. 

Your picture I address d myself to 
the Painter, has no doubt some famous 
classical subject Hero perceiving Lean- 
der s head emerging from the waves ou 
lien Lydia s apercevant d HORACE or 
Lucretia 

Subject ! he cried do you think I 



would paint a subject. With what scorn 
he said this I cannot tell you for I 
do not yet understand it Do you think, 
sir, he said, that I paint literary pic 
tures ? 

Pas du tout, monsieur, said I for 
the matter of that, I assured him a 
Painter may be no more of a man of let 
ters than to make shift to sign his name 
in the corner of his picture. You do 
not apprehend, says he. Do you know 
what we mean by art for art s sake ? 
I do not I told him save that it 
must be something practised on a full 
belly. 

This is a Composition, says he. 
Tis a question of lines and harmony. 
A composition, in fact is. ... a 
composition. And what does that 
mean? quoth I. It means nothing, 
said he. If it meant anything, it would 

not be art. 1 have heard much the 

same thing said of Poetry, I replied 
but I had no thought that the rule was 
of such general application. Is it also 
true in selling of breeches and stock 
ings ? 

Je vous ferois observer, I would 
have you observe said the Painter, 
that tis but the tip of Mademoiselle 
Didon s finger that you are required to 
support. You would make me a nig 
gard, said I. But here there came a 

timid knock and the Painter went to 
the door. For better convenience in 
talking to the person outside he put 
the door between himself and us. I 
declare and protest it was a delicate 
situation. 

For there stood I, with the tip of 
my finger lifting the tip of the Model s 
finger or, if it was not the precise geo 
metrical tip of her finger let him who 
would take a foot-rule to VENUS appraise 
the extent of my transgression I say 

I supported the tip of her finger 

I knew an epicure, once would carve a 
fowl and save himself the second joint 
he was twice wedded ; but tis to no 
purpose here but I must tell you that 
there ran such a strange current of live 
ly emotion such strange tingling and 
agreeable disturbance from my heart 
to the tip of my finger, where it met an 
other current so like it I dare swear they 

were twins and thence set back 

that first the model look d to the right 



260 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



and I to the left and then I look d 

to the right and she to the left and 

then, in the natural ordinance of alter 
nation our eyes met and at this 

juncture, as I have said, the Painter put 
himself behind the door. 



THE STUDIO. 

THE DOOR. 

Now there are many things that 
may happen in the time that a man is 
behind a door. In the giving out of 
mouths, for example, many a man would 
have had a smaller one had he had an 
inch or two of oak between him and the 
distributing genius. Had Aladdin been 
behind the door when the Princess Bad- 
roulbadour passed for the first time 
might he not have made some honest 
wench of his own degree a happy wife 
instead of obtruding his peasantry upon 
a princess of high degree? Or had 
CASSIO been behind the door when 
OTHELLO treated his lady to such bad 
language and affronted her pretty 
neck with his blackamoor hands might 
he not have rush d in and cast OTHEL 
LO neck and heels out of window 

and thereby . . . vindicated the 
honor of a very chaste and excellent 
lady? 

But on this occasion I had no 
need to reason so abstractly for the 
Painter only bade a little boy begone 
who had come to offer himself for a 
model and came back to us. The 
pose is easy to resume, I said. 

Tis needless, said he I have drawn 
the arm. For the rest, your aid is not 
necessary. Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I 
said. I hope, sir I may be accorded 
some further lessons in art. Do you 
need them ? he asked I am but a nov 
ice, said I. It was as if the atmosphere 
had grown suddenly chill. I bowed 
profoundly perhaps my bow inclined 
a little toward the model I quitted the 
Studio. 



THE STUDIO. 

THE CORRIDOR. 

The long corridor that led to the 
street was dark I pick d my way care 
fully. Of a sudden I heard a faint 
sound of sobbing my heart moved 
within me. Who is it ? I said. 

Tis only I, sir said the Boy. 

It was the Boy, I saw, that the Paint 
er had turn d away so abruptly he was 
crouch d in a corner, crying as if his 
heart would break. Tis only I, he said. 

11 avoit des larmes dans so, voix. 

Tis only I, said I, for the most of us in 
this world. He alone is happy who 
hath another to whom he is as he is to 

himself. And what is thy trouble ? 

Thereupon he told me that the Painter 
had engaged him for that day but 
that, being come, he found a better 
model had offer d she was preferred 
and there was no employment for him 

though, as he pathetically told 

me, he was but two shillings an hour, 
while she was at the least a dollar. 
And with that, his tears overcame him 
and NIOBE, seeing him, would I am 
convinced have hid her mouchoir out 
of sight and blush d for it s lace edging. 

When it is a question of pretty 
ladies, said he tis little they think of 
the children. 

Thou art a young philosopher, said 
I but thy philosophy will serve thee 
better when thou art older. And I 
gave him a silver piece of the worth of 
two shillings. It was a foolish thing 
God grant my wisdom be no worse 

matter than my foolishness. He 

thanked me not at all ; but ran off sing 
ing twas a sort of thanks. 

But while I had been talking 

with the Boy, the night had been com 
ing on rapidly without my observ 
ing of it. There was but little light left 
in the corridor when I heard sound 

as of steps approaching tis time 

to go home, said I and then, looking 
up I perceiv d 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



THERE was a story in the newspapers the 
other day about a Massachusetts minister 
who resigned his charge because someone 
had given his parish a fine house, and his 
parishioners wanted him to live in it. His 
salary was too small, he said, to admit of his 
living in a big house, and he would not do 
it. He was even deaf to the proposal that 
he should share the proposed tenement with 
the sewing societies and clubs of his church, 
and when the matter came to a serious issue, 
he relinquished his charge and sought a 
new field of usefulness. The situation was 
an amusing instance of the embarrassment 
of riches. Let no one to whom restricted 
quarters may have grown irksome, and who 
covets larger dimensions of shelter, be too 
hasty in deciding that the minister was 
wrong. Did you ever see the house that 
Hawthorne lived in at Lenox ? Did you 
ever see Emerson s house at Concord? 
They are good houses for Americans to know 
and remember. They permitted thought. 

A big house is one of the greediest cor 
morants which can light upon a little in 
come. Backs may go threadbare and stom 
achs may worry along on indifferent fillings, 
but a house will have things, though its 
occupants go without. It is rarely com 
plete, and constantly tempts the imagina 
tion to flights in brick and dreams in lath 
and plaster. It develops annual thirsts for 
paint and wall-paper ; the plumbing in it 
must be kept in order on pain of death. 
Whatever price is put on coal, it has to be 
heated in winter ; and if it is rural or subur- 
Voi.. VIII. 25 



ban, the grass about it must be cut even 
though funerals in the family have to be 
put off for the mowing. If the tenants are 
not rich enough to hire people to keep their 
house clean, they must do it themselves, 
for there is no excuse that will pass among 
housekeepers for a dirty house. The master 
of a house too big for him may expect to 
spend the leisure which might be made in 
tellectually or spiritually profitable in ac 
quiring and putting into practice fag ends 
of the arts of the plumber, the bell-hanger, 
the locksmith, the gasfitter, and the carpen 
ter. Presently he will know how to do 
everything that can be done in the house, 
except enjoy himself. He will learn about 
taxes, too, and water-rates, and how such 
abominations as sewers or new pavements 
are always liable to accrue at his expense. 
As for the mistress, she will be a slave to 
carpets and curtains, wall-paper, painters 
and women who come in by the day to clean. 
She will be lucky if she gets a chance to 
say her prayers, and thrice and four times 
happy when she can read a book or visit 
with her friends. To live in a big house 
may be a luxury, provided that one has a full 
set of money and an enthusiastic housekeep 
er in one s family, but to scrimp in a big 
house is a miserable business. Yet such is 
human folly, that for a man to refuse to live 
in a house because it is too big for him, is 
such an exceptional exhibition of sense that 
it becomes the favorite paragraph of a day 
in the newspapers. 

An ideal of earthly comfort, so common 



262 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



that every reader must have seen it, is to 
get a house so big that it is burdensome to 
maintain, and fill it up so full of jimcracks 
that it is a constant occupation to keep it in 
order. Then, when the expense of living in 
it is so great that you can t afford to go away 
and rest from the burden of it, the situation 
is complete and boarding-houses and cem 
eteries begin to yawn for you. How many 
Americans, do you suppose, out of the 
droves that flock annually to Europe, are 
running away from oppressive houses ? 

When nature undertakes to provide a 
house, it fits the occupant. Animals who 
build by instinct build only what they need, 
but man s building instinct, if it gets a 
chance to spread itself at all, is boundless, 
just as all his instincts are. For it is man s 
peculiarity that nature has filled him with 
impulses to do things, and left it to his 
discretion when to stop. She never tells 
him when he has finished. And perhaps 
we ought not to be surprised that in so 
many cases it happens that he doesn t know, 
but just goes ahead as long as the materials 
last. 

If another man tries to oppress him, he 
understands that and is ready to fight to 
death and sacrifice all he has, rather than 
submit ; but the tyranny of things is so sub 
tle, so gradual in its approach, and comes 
so masked with seeming benefits, that it 
has him hopelessly bound before he sus 
pects his fetters. He says from day to day, 
"I will add thus to my house;" " I will 
have one or two more horses ; " I will 
make a little greenhouse in my garden ; " 
"I will allow myself the luxury of another 
hired man ; " and so he goes on having 
things and imagining that he is richer for 
them. Presently he begins to realize that 
it is the things that own him. He has 
piled them up on his shoulders, and there 
they sit like Sindbad"s old Man and drive 
him ; and it becomes a daily question 
whether he can keep his trembling legs or 
not. 

All of which is not meant to prove that 
property has no real value, or to rebut 
Charles Lamb s scornful denial that enough 
is as good as a feast. It is not meant to ap 
ply to the rich, who can have things com 
fortably, if they are philosophical ; but to 
us poor, who have constant need to remind 
ourselves that where the verbs to have and 



to be cannot both be completely inflected 
the verb to be is the one that best repays 
concentration. 



NOTHING can be more significant to any 
one who considers criticism from the util 
itarian point of view, than the silent swift 
ness with which any art outgrows its current 
definitions. A striking illustration is the 
way in which the pertinence and value of 
the still copious talk about the conflict be 
tween realism and romanticism in the art 
of fiction have, so to speak, lapsed. This 
talk still fills the air, though the echoes it 
awakens grow sensibly fainter and fainter, 
whereas fiction itself has ceased to divide 
on these lines. There is still, of course, as 
there always has been and always will be, 
the old contrast of temperaments ; as in 
other departments of literature and the fine 
arts, the novelist s work is inevitably colored 
by the view of his material which, instinct 
ively, he takes. But the most ardent con 
troversialist would not maintain that this 
temperamental difference in virtue of 
which one writer treats his material scien 
tifically and another imaginatively is the 
difference between realism and romantic 
ism as these terms are used. Realism, as 
actually and universally understood, has the 
field all to itself ; it is an evolution ; it jus 
tifies itself historically, and has come to 
stay." In a word, the painting of life and 
the world, of character and manners, is 
nowadays artistically conscientious as a 
few years back it had not thought of being 
in avoiding solecisms. This is the feel 
ing of the time ; no novelist escapes it save 
at the expense of a barren eccentricity. 
Living in our day, Shakespeare would cer 
tainly not give his Eoman soldiers watches, 
nor would a new " Ivanhoe " have an "his 
torical error on every page." And, in the 
same degree, to counsel novelists to be ob 
servant, to eschew romantic idealization, to 
examine the nature and follow the sugges 
tion of their material, is now merely to beat 
the air. No literary artist of even the second 
rank does otherwise. On the other hand, if 
the present devotion to what is called truth 
as conspicuous in painting and sculpture 
as in literature be as hostile to imagina 
tiveness as the romanticists assert, it is not 
by " harking back" along the line of evolu 
tion that imaginativeness is to be secured. 



THE POINT OF YIHV. 



263 



The " ideality " of the fiction of the future 
will have another fascination than that of 
Alexandra Dumas. 

The truth is that the current criticism 
whose shibboleths are "romanticism" and 
" realism," has got into the polemic stage 
which is the same thing as saying that it 
has ceased to be criticism. Criticism is 
mainly an affair of analysis and classifica 
tion. These afford it ample scope, and 
dealing successfully with them confers 
abundant dignity. To decry Scott or exalt 
Mr. Rider Haggard is to be the slave of an 
abstraction, than which nothing is less crit 
ical. It may be useful by way of shocking 
the illiterate and inattentive into a compre 
hension of your position, but it is not criti 
cism, because your eye is not " on the ob 
ject " but on your position, which also in 
this case is hopelessly outside the circle of 
operations of true contemporary strategy. 
The realistic " controversialists are espe 
cially slow to perceive this. Not only are 
they singularly blind to the success of their 
own party among the novelists whose ma 
terial is exclusively human life and charac 
ter (how else explain their heat ?), but they 
seem to insist that everyone who deals with 
fiction at all should deal exclusively with 
this material. Take, for a pertinent and 
practical example, the short stories which 
Mr. T. E. Sullivan has recently collected 
in a volume, and which attract the anathe 
mas of the College of Propaganda of Real 
ism, because they are romantic rather than 
real. There is in them, however, no ques 
tion of life whatever, and to assume the 
contrary is to exhibit a most defective ana 
lytic sense. They are not even what Car- 
lyle describes in characterizing a passage of 
" WilhelmMeister"as " altogether sketched 
out " by Goethe in the most airy, grace 
ful, delicately-wise kind of way, so as to 
keep himself out of the common controver 
sies of the street and of the forum " such 
as the realism vs. romanticism controversy, 
let us say "yet to indicate what was the 
result of things he had been long medita 
ting upon." If you like them it is because 
you like the spectacle of a fine talent at 
play, because they are marked by a sensi 
tive feeling for what is cultivated and re 
fined, for diction at once polished and 
expressive, felicitous and unlabored, and 
because they are full of delicate and un 



worldly fancifulness, not at all because they 
deal with life romantically and significantly. 
If you do not like them it is because they 
strike an uncertain note in not betraying a 
full consciousness of their own character, 
because they are slightly confused in atti 
tude and blend the material properties of 
realistic fiction names, dates, places, ac 
tual passions with an utterly unreal and, 
so far as life is concerned, a somewhat irre 
sponsible imaginativeness. Why not like 
them for the one series of reasons and ob 
ject to them for the other ? But that would 
be critical, and controversy has the great 
charm over criticism of superior simplicity. 
However, exactingly complex as it is, it 
is criticism that conquers in the end. And 
surely no polemics that criticism finally 
sends to " the country of old moons " will 
be less regretted than the realism vs. ro 
manticism controversy. Its loss will make 
few calls upon our fortitude. We shall 
feel, indeed, in the great majority of in 
stances, probably, like Artenius Ward s 
famous prisoner, who languished long years 
in prison until it suddenly occurred to him 
to open the door and issue into liberty. 
The delight Thackeray would have experi 
enced at seeing Carlyle "hang up his d d 
old fiddle," which Carlyle did experience in 
beholding Voltaire s " battering ram swing 
idly in the air," will be ours. We shall 
then be able to release our attention for ex 
ercise upon actual phenomena and present 
tendencies, and, as w r ell as the sense of re 
lief from the mechanical droning of jejune 
formularies, enjoy also the exhilaration of 
seeing once more the object "as in itself it 
really is " now that it has moved on in its 
orbit and exhibits new phases since we last 
took the observation to figure upon which 
we have so long tamed. We shall be able 
to tolerate Poe and Hawthorne, Hoffmann 
and Gautier, without fear of being false to 
" realism," and so far as concerns the por 
traiture of life, we shall be able cordially to 
agree with M. Zola himself, who affirms : 
" Tout n est que rcve ! " or with the author of 
" George de Barnwell," who long ago main 
tained : " The Ideal is the true Real." 

THE melancholy days are come when the 
gentle chatelaine, from her stronghold in the 
mountains, or by the much-sounding sea, 
issues her friendly challenges to her own 



264 



THE POINT OF 



particular contest of wit and beauty, with 
all the pleasurable torment that it entails. 
" Stella and Vanessa have both arrived," 
she writes; "Lady Blarney and Miss 
Skeggs, Will Honeycomb, Esquire, and 
Captain Sentry, are expected daily. Come 
and pass a week here with these distin 
guished guests and then she names 
the day. She does not add that, long be 
fore the allotted term is over, everyone of 
this sprightly company, yourself included, 
will have become to her an intolerable nui 
sance, and that for the privilege of sharing 
her ennui you must change all your habits, 
and forego your dearest occupations. You 
are to pack your trunk and board the train 
with all possible despatch, and with the 
perfect knowledge that at your journey s 
end not even the traveller s privilege will 
be yours. You may not take your ease in 
your inn ; on the contrary, you are asked 
especially to sit up and look pleasant, to 
make yourself agreeable, if such a thing be 
possible, from one end of the long week to 
the other. You must go, of course ; there 
are many good reasons why you should not 
refuse. Your hostess is a charming woman, 
and you value her friendship ; she flatters 
you, not only by her invitation, but also in 
her method of enforcing your allegiance. 
The whole affair is to be quite informal 
a much abused word long since made mean 
ingless and you are to be free as air. For 
civility s sake, you affect to believe her when 
she says these things, knowing all the while 
as well as you do that they are false as water. 
Tyrant custom is in nothing more tyran 
nical than in this matter of the visit which, as 
now constituted, can be a matter of enjoy 
ment only to lovers and children, for whose 
benefit, it would appear, all custom s laws 
are framed. The rational man, let us hope, 
will always be truly hospitable. He will 



delight to welcome under his roof an in 
timate friend, for adoption into his own 
family, during an indefinite period. He 
will even return this visit cheerfully, for 
getting his small discomforts in the many 
compensations of the pleasant intercourse 
it confirms. But until his whole nature 
changes, he will never honestly enjoy being 
bound over to good behavior for days to 
gether, among comparative strangers, in a 
house that is not his. Of " all forms, 
modes, shows of grief " that fashion has in 
vented, this is surely the most irksome. O 
Informality, what deceits are practised in 
thy name ! One might as well put on the 
trappings of a courtier and accept feudal 
servitude at once, as in a land of freedom, 
under summer skies, to be trammelled so. 

When, in the depth of winter, we are 
dragged from our quiet firesides to perform 
social duties which for the most part we 
would gladly leave undone, it is with the 
distinct understanding that the sacrifice 
will endure for three hours only. The 
clock strikes, and we are gone. We con 
gratulate ourselves that it was no worse ; 
we have appeased our consciences, and may 
retire in good order with the satisfaction 
that follows any other disagreeable act of 
heroism. Why should this kindly law of 
self-protection be enforced at one season 
more than at another? In this brief life of 
ours, three hours a day are enough and 
more than enough to give the world. The 
long-suffering spirit of man rises in revolt and 
demands a three-hour limit, year in and 
year out, in summer and winter, spring and 
autumn. That the world has some claim 
upon us, only a savage or a philosopher 
would presume to deny ; up to this point, 
then, let it be conceded just and honorable ; 
but beyond this point, let us insist upon 
the right to be let alone. 





DRAWN BY R. F. ZOGBAUM. 



ENGRAVED BY T. H. HEARD. 



IN THE MORNING WATCH. 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VIII. 



SEPTEMBER, 1890. 



No. 3. 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



By Ritfus Fair child Zogbaum. 




O 



NE bell in 
the morn 
ing watch ! 
Rolling in heavy 
surges, inky black 
save where a curling 
wave -top throws 
out a white gleam 
of foam for a mo 
ment, the mighty 
ocean stretches on 
all sides, heaving 
in long swells and 
dashing its great 
billows with hol 
low boom and 
crash of flying spray against the staunch 
steel sides of our gallant ship, plough 
ing her way in silent majesty through 
the stormy seas. High above us the 
weak light of a waning moon strives in 
vain to penetrate the fleecy masses of 
flying scud, and the wind sighs and 
moans through the rigging and hums 
in the hollow of the great foretop-sail, 
double-reefed and curving outward, 
hard as iron. The light burning in the 
chart-house under the after-bridge, re 
flects dimly in the wet and slippery 
planking of the spray-drenched deck, 
and the figures of the men on watch 
loom, shadow-like, up out of the gloom 
beyond. Forward, on the narrowing 
forecastle and on either side of the bow 
sprit, the lookouts stand, alert and vigi 
lant, while on the deck near by the stal 
wart sergeant of the guard, white belt 
and polished steel side-arms catching a 
stray gleam from the masthead light, 



paces up and down with measured mili 
tary stride in spite of the rolling of the 
ship. Groups of the men of the watch 
stand or lie about in sheltered corners, 
wrapped in their pea-jackets and with 
watch-caps pulled well down on their 
foreheads ; up on the forward-bridge 
the officer of the deck, rubber-coated 
and booted, sou -wester hat strapped 
under chin, leans with folded arms 
against the hammock nettings, peering 
out over the wide dark waste of waters ; 
and the quartermaster, the light from 
the tarpaulin-covered binnacle striking 
on his weather-beaten features, stands 
motionless at the wheel, his eyes fixed 
on the compass before him. A ward 
room " boy " as all the officers ser 
vants are called climbs up the ladder 
to the high bridge, balancing a cup of 
hot coffee on a tray and hands it to the 
officer, who, without leaving his post, 
hastily swallows the steaming beverage, 
and, with a hearty slap of his mittened 
hands on his broad chest and a growl 
of approval, casts his eyes seaward 
again. We join him, and after a word 
of greeting stand silently at his side, 
looking out over the heaving ocean and 
occasionally taking a short turn to and 
fro across the wide bridge. 

Gradually the gloom about us grows 
less profound, objects near at hand be 
come more distinct, and a gray light 
steals slowly over the surface of the sea. 
There is a movement among the men on 
the deck, hoarse orders from the boat 
swain s mate, and the daily recurring 
task of washing down the decks com- 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



268 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



mences ; a pump is working somewhere 
and the water from the hose is splashing 
on the planking. Now and then some 
early riser from the sleeping crew be 
low pokes a dishevelled head out of the 
hatch forward and looks about him ; 
the ward-room steward comes limping 
forward in slippered feet, walking on 
his heels to keep his feet out of the wet, 
and shivering in the stiff, cool breeze, 
that blows the spray in showers of salt 
drops over the high bulwarks. Far on 
the horizon ahead of us the sky takes 
on a paler hue, then a faint rosy flush 
like the reflection of a distant prairie 
fire. Now the low-lying cloud-banks 
glow with streaks of bright red and 
gold, a shaft of yellow light shoots far 
up to the zenith, and out of the heaving 
waters ahead of us, dazzling our eyes 
with his glory, the sun rises, tipping 
the crests of the waves with gold and 
bathing the white sides of the ships of 
the squadron, rising and falling to the 




Jackie is making his morning toilet." 



swell of the ocean on either side of us, 
in a flood of warm yellow light. 

" Bos n s mate there ! call all hands ! 
Call in the deck lookouts ! Lay aloft the 
lookout to the mast-head ! " the orders 
foUow in rapid succession. " Turn off 
the spar-deck circuit ! " and the great red 
and green lights on the port and star 
board sides of the bridge and the light 
at the mast-head are extinguished by 
the touch of a button in the " dynamo 
room" below, while a sailor goes "trip 
ping up aloft " to the foretop-sail yard, 
simultaneously with a long-drawn shrill 
whistle of the boatswain s pipe, echoed 
on the gun-deck by others, and the 
hoarse cry of the boatswain s mates call 
ing : " A-a-11 ha-a-nds ! Up all ham 
mocks ! " The great ship is waking up, 
and out of the hatches the men come 
tumbling one after the other sailor- 
men, apprentice boys, firemen, marines, 
cooks, and " all hands" each with ham 
mock neatly rolled, ready to be placed 
in the nettings in the bulwarks. 
Brawny, bare -chested, bare -footed 
fellows, most of them ; regardless of 
the cold wind blowing and the wet 
decks, they run nimbly to their ap 
pointed stations, some clambering 
up and opening the nettings, while 
the others pitch their hammocks in 
and stow them away and out of sight 
for the day. As we lean over the 
rail now, and look down, the scene 
is an animated one. The deck for 
ward is swarming with men, and 
" Jackie " is making his morning toi 
let and preparing for breakfast and 
the day s routine. See that gigantic 
young coxswain yonder as he souses 
his well-soaped neck and face into 
the cold water in the bucket before 
him, spluttering and blowing away 
like a grampus, then rubbing and 
polishing his muscular, sun-burned 
neck and broad white back, and hairy 
chest with his rough parti-colored 
towel. With his little circular mir 
ror perched on a coil of rope another 
sailorman is carefully parting his 
thick curly locks, while a shipmate 
looks over his shoulder and gives a 
final twist to his black silk necker 
chief, and a marine brushes his coat 
and hums softly to himself mean 
while. The steam from the galleys 






WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



269 




The bright colored bits of bunting are run up and down. 



is rising out of the hatches, and with 
it mingled, it must be confessed, with 
a smell of oil and grease from the en 
gines an odor of hot coffee and broil 
ing bacon, and the boatswain s whistle 
is heard again piping to breakfast. The 
men off duty troop down below, while 
the watch, some drying up the decks, 
others polishing the brass-work on the 
bridges, await the moment when they 
will be relieved to take the morning 
meal in their turn, with appetites sharp 
ened by the free sea air they have been 
breathing since four o clock. 

We also realize about this time that a 



little nourishment is something not to 
be despised, and as it is " close on " 
to eight bells and our own particular 
Japanese " boy " has been blinking and 
smiling at us from the deck below, evi 
dently wondering what on earth we are 
doing up there on the wet and draughty 
bridge when hot coffee and a rasher of 
bacon are waiting for us in the warm 
ward -room below, we make our way 
aft and down to the berth-deck and are 
soon seated at the table with our mess 
mates, who indulge in some good- 
humored chaff at our expense anent our 
nautical appearance, and the enthusiasm 
that induces a man to turn out for the 
morning watch when he 
don t have to. 

How brightly the sun 
is shining when we go on 
deck again ; scarcely a 
cloud to be seen, and the 
wide ocean vying with 
the sky in the brilliancy 
of its hue. A stiff breeze 
is blowing and our ac 
companying ships are 
bowling along with us 
under sail and steam, 
courtesying to the waves 
and dashing clouds of 
snow-white spray up from 
their sharp prows. The 
Boston, on our starboard 
quarter, stands out a sil 
houette against the sunlit 
space beyond; the At 
lanta, on our port quarter, 
is bathed in light, her 
sails white as milk, the 
shadows of masts and rig 
ging cast against them in 
deep-blue masses, while away out on the 
end of her main-yard a sailor is perched, 
engaged in some work. Directly astern 
of us the beautiful yacht-like Yorktown 
gracefully lides the waves, the foam at 
her bows flashing back a silvery gleam to 
the sun s raj s. Our own vessel the flag 
ship Chicago moves steadily onward, 
answering with easy roll to the heavy swell 
of the sea. To windward on the quarter 
deck " that part which sacred doth re 
main to the lone chieftain " the admiral 
is walking : hands clasped behind his 
back, his long iron-gray whiskers blow 
ing about like smoke in the fresh breeze, 



270 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



he paces to and fro with a firm, long 
stride that might put many a younger 
man on his mettle to keep up with ; 
on the after-bridge the flag-lieutenant, 
glass in hand, is signaUing to the other 
ships of the squadron, and obedient to 
his orders the bright-colored bits of 
bunting, flying out straight from the 
halliards, are run up and down from 
the bridge to the main-yard by the at 
tentive signal-boys. At the standard 
compass perched high above the deck 
in order to remove the sensitive needle 
as far as possible from the magnetic in 
fluence of the great mass of steel and 
iron composing our ship and her arma 
ment, and to serve as a standard to which 
the steering compass at the wheel for 
ward may be referred, as the latter is 
frequently placed of necessity in closer 
contiguity to the disturbing metal a 
quartermaster is stationed, ready to an 
swer any hail from the officer of the 
deck. The men on watch are variously 
engaged, some in the boats secured to 
the davits or inboard to the skids over 
the deck, some in the rigging, some 
splicing a rope here, overhauling tackle 
there, or polishing the " bright work " 
anywhere and everywhere ; while the 
" after-guard sweeper " is mopping up 
some spot on the deck, which has of 
fended the eye of the apparently omni 
present and indefatigable " executive 
officer." A difficult position to fill that 
of first lieutenant as Jack loves to des 
ignate the executive officer of a big 
war-ship like this, one requiring tact, 
experience, judgment, a cool head, and 
ready wit, firmness, and patience. His 
duties are manifold ; on him depends, 
under the orders of his chief, the main 
tenance of discipline ; he is the senior 
of the line officers, and all the details 
of the management of the ship s com 
pany in fact, of the ship herself are 
executed by him. Every complaint, how 
ever trivial, every privilege asked for, 
every one of the thousand and one ne 
cessary wants of the ship and her crew, 
pass through his hands, and scarcely any 
moment of the day can he call his own. 
His presence is required at the drills, 
the formations, the functions" from 
the "coming up of the sun until the 
going down thereof," and almost as fre 
quently at all other times too. From 



the hour in the morning when the de 
linquents for the past twenty-four hours 
are mustered by the faithful master-at- 
arms on the port side of the gun-deck, 
near the main-mast, to pass a "mauvais 
quart-d heure " in the dreaded pres 
ence of their captain, and to answer to 
him for the offences reported by the 
executive officer, until the drum beats 
the retreat at evening quarters, he is 
constantly occupied. Even at his meals, 
where he sits at the head of the ward 
room table, the messenger-boy or trim 
marine orderly may appear at his elbow 
at any moment, with official message or 
inquiry, and, should he throw himself 
down on the sofa for a few minutes 
nap, he may expect to have his slumbers 
broken by the same disturbers of his 
peace, with the same official : " Sir, the 
captain sends his compliments and wishes 
to know," etc. 

A half-hour passes, when, suddenly 
and without a moment s previous warn 
ing, the sharp rattle of a drum is heard, 
electric gongs clang noisily, loud and 
peremptory orders mingle with the rush 
of hundreds of feet as the crew hurries 
to "general quarters." To the inex 
perienced eye, what seems to be a scene 
of disorderly confusion now takes place. 
That portion of the crew whose stations 
are on the upper deck, come swarm 
ing up the hatches ; the marine guard, 
hastily grasping rifles and buckling on 
accoutrements, falls in ; the keys to the 
magazines and shell rooms are pro 
duced, and stewards, servants, cooks, 
and yeomen rig the tackle over the 
ammunition hatches in readiness for 
the work of hoisting shell and cart 
ridges. The gun-crews cast loose the 
great guns, and the death-dealing Hotch- 
kiss revolving cannons and the machine- 
guns ; hatches are hastily put on, ladders 
torn away, and the decks turned "topsy 
turvy " in an instant. Rifles are handed 
out from the armory, accoutrements, re 
volvers, cutlasses caught from their 
places, and in an incredibly short space 
of time order rises from apparent chaos, 
and every officer and man is at his post, 
and the ship is ready for action. Very 
business-like it looks too, as we stand 
in the semi-obscurity of the gun-deck ; 
the long six-inch rifles run out of the 
ports, and the men standing motionless. 



272 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



around them, awaiting the orders which 
quickly follow one after the other in 
rapid succession, now in one part of 
the ship, now in another, the crew going 
through the motions of loading and 
firing the guns, or, with rifle or revolver 
and cutlass in hand, boarding or repel 
ling an imaginary enemy. All this, how 
ever, is to Jack a mere matter of routine 
duty, drills of one sort or another tak 
ing place every day, whenever the state 
of the weather permits. The call to 
"general quarters," or to the equally 
exciting " fire quarters," may be sound 
ed at any moment of the day or even at 
night, for a man-of-war is always " mob 
ilized," to use a military term, and al 
ways kept in a state of efficiency for 
war even in times of profound peace. 
A full supply of ammunition is stored 
in the magazines, the guns, small-arms, 
and every necessary equipment for fight 
ing purposes are kept ready for use at a 
moment s notice, so that the ship may be 
ready to go into action whenever required 
to do so. Every modern war vessel is 
essentially a sea-going fighting-machine. 

The old sailing frigate and the great 
line of battle ships, with towering masts 
and enormous squares of canvas, their 
long rows of guns, tier upon tier, their 
crews of several hundred men, have dis 
appeared in the mists of the past along 
with the heroes of Cooper and Marryat. 
The smallest vessel of our squadron, 
with her six guns, her powerful engines, 
and all the appliances of defence and 
offence, that steam and electricity, in 
short, that modern science contributes 
to the safety and efficiency of a ship and 
a ship s company of the present time, 
would destroy a whole fleet of " saucy 
Arethusas." 

With the change in the ships, a 
change in the life and training of the 
sailor has come, a change so great, that 
one of Nelson s old sea-dogs, or even a 
Jackie of our late war, would be dum- 
f ounded at the manifold duties required 
of a modern man-of-war s man. Jack 
must be a soldier nowadays as well as 
a seaman. He must understand the in 
tricate mechanism of the revolving can 
non, the delicate sights and complicated 
breech apparatus of the heavy guns with 
their hydraulic mountings, the manual 
and care of his magazine rifle and his 



self-cocking revolver, as well as how to 
go aloft in a gale of wind and " pass 
the weather earring, "to pull an oar in a 
boat, or to knot and splice a rope. In 
a man-of-war s crew of to-day, many of 
the men must be specially trained for the 
peculiar kind of work falling to their 
share in the general tout-ensemble of 
modern scientific appliances that are 
necessary to insure the efficiency of the 
ship as an instrument of warfare, and 
to provide for the comfort and welfare 
of those serving on board of her. For 
example, the Yorktown, which at the 
time of the writing of this article is 
probably the most thoroughly equipped 
with the newest appointments of any 
of the vessels of our new navy now in 
commission, comprises in its crew of 
one hundred and eighty men exclusive 
of her line officers, surgeon, engineers, 
and paymaster several expert electri 
cians to run the dynamo and keep in or 
der the electric appliances ; mahcinists 
one of whom is a boilermaker, and the 
others qualified for duties connected with 
the running and repairing of the com 
plicated engines, the distilling of the 
drinking-water, the heating apparatus, 
and the many uses that steam may be 
put to ; an apothecary, several so-called 
yeomen as assistants to the paymaster, 
engineers, etc. ; besides a blacksmith, 
tailor, painter, carpenters, sailmaker, 
and others. As already referred to, the 
comfort and welfare of the crew which 
is, so to speak, the life and soul of this 
floating fighting-machine, the modern 
man-of-war must be provided for. Jack 
is certainly well fed and weh 1 clothed, 
and to the paymaster and his assistants 
falls the duty of caring for and issuing 
the various supplies, clothing, etc., which 
are necessary for his use. Clothing 
and so-called " small stores " are issued 
monthly, under the requisitions of the 
officers of the different divisions into 
which the ship s company is divided, at 
rates based on the actual cost price to 
the government of the articles required, 
among which may be mentioned under 
wear, shoes, mattresses, rain - clothes, 
tobacco, knives, razors and straps, soap, 
whisk-brooms, forks, spoons, plates in 
short a variety of goods and wares such 
as might go to make up the stock of a 
regular " country store." 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



273 




" All work and no play makes Jack a 
dull boy," and certainly the majority of 
the crew of our handsome frigate are any 
thing but dull, on the contrary, it would 
be difficult to find a more intelligent or 
"liksly" looking set of men; and, al 
though often called upon to do work of 
the hardest description, Jack has plenty 
of time to himself, and may pass the 
hours off watch and when not at drill 
pretty much as he pleases. The men s 
dinner is over some half-hour or more 



now, and the gun-deck is filled 
with them from "midships for 
ward to the eyes." Let us stroll 
up toward the bows and smoke 
our afternoon cigar among them, 
and take a look at the life between decks 
on a fine day at sea. 

The ship has a slight heel to port, but 
the wind is favorable and the big sails 
are drawing well and serve to steady 
her, so that she rolls but slightly and 
with a slow, easy motion. To wind 
ward in the sponson where the Hotch- 
kiss revolver is stationed, and further on, 
where the brown six-inch rifles thrust 
their tarpaulin-covered muzzles through 
the ship s sides some of the ports are 



274 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



open and the sunlight streams through 
them and the fresh sea -air circulates 
freely. On a locker by the arm rack 
drum and bugle hanging from the top, 
bronzed-barrelled rifles of the marine 
guard standing in a long straight row 
a sailmaker in duck working-suit is sew 
ing away with sailmaker s needle and 
thimble at some piece of canvas, possi 
bly a hammock for some messmate, 
while at the open port beyond an ap 
prentice, seated on his ditty box, port 
folio on knee and head bent low down 
over his task, pens a letter to some 
friend or fond parents in far -distant 
America. An old fellow with weather- 
beaten, wrinkled face and bristling wiiite 
chin -beard sits beside him, spectacles 
on nose, and moving his lips as he spells 
out some story from the well-thumbed 
pages of the cloth-bound book drawn 
from the ship s library, in his seamy 
knotted hands, regardless of the chips 
and shavings flying about from the ear- 



perhaps, into a neat frame he has been 
carving. Huddled about on the deck 
between the guns are groups of the 
men, playing at games of various sorts, 
reading, writing, some smoking and 
" yarning " to one another ; a hand sew 
ing-machine is going there, where the 
ship s tailor crouches, cross-legged, be 
fore it, and one old chap has just brought 
a hot flat iron from the galley stove and 
is pressing out a pair of well-worn trou 
sers, sucking away meanwhile assidu 
ously at a very short clay pipe ; and a 
gigantic young negro, black as a coal, 
is deftly weaving a knife lanyard from 
a mass of white threads secured to the 
grating covering one of the electric 
lamps. 

"White-capped, white-coated cooks are 
busy about the galleys, peeling pota 
toes, cutting up meat brought from the 
refrigerators near by, and preparing gen 
erally for the evening meal ; and ward 
room boys and mess servants Japan- 




jack is hard at work." 



penter s bench standing on the deck be 
fore him, and where one or two of the 
carpenter s mates are engaged in work ; 
and a young sailor is endeavoring to fit 
a photograph, his sweetheart s portrait 



ese, Portuguese, Italians, and any other 
nationality but Americans, if we except 
one or two colored men are occupied 
in various ways ; while, seated astride of 
a bench, the admiral s cook and the 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



275 



steward, a piece of old canvas on which 
a number of rudely drawn squares are 
painted in black and white between 
them, are deeply absorbed in a game of 
checkers. Further forward the barber 
has a corner for his chair, and is shaving 
one of the petty officers, gossiping mean 
while, as barbers will do on shipboard 
as well as on land, with his 
waiting customers seated 
or standing around him. 
Among the great anchor 
chains some of the sailor- 
men are lying asleep on the 
hard deck, others are over 
hauling their ditty boxes, 
small wooden chests in 
which Jack keeps his more 
precious belongings. 

At the foot of the ladder 
by the forward hatch a ma 
rine stands on guard, white- 
gloved and with side-arms, 
while a corporal moves 
about fore and aft, ready 
to check the least infraction 
of the many disciplinary 
rules of the ship. Now and 
then the boatswain s whis 
tle is heard on deck and 
his rough voice growls out 
some order, and it is curi 
ous to note how everyone 
suspends his occupation for 
a moment and turns a lis 
tening ear in the direction 
of the sound, lest the order 
should perchance have ref 
erence to some duty or 
work every sailor may ex 
pect to be called upt>n to ijjj 
perform at any tim e. Above 
the low hum of the voices, 
the occasional trampling of 
feet on the deck above, the 
swish and splash of the 
waves outside, a constant, never-ending 
hollow sound seems to fill the atmos 
phere, and one feels the throb of the great 
engines, in the depths of the ship away 
below, moving in a rhythmic, measured 
beat like the heart of some huge living 
creature. Let us go down the ladder to 
the engine room, looking to our footing 
carefully lest we slip on the greasy steps, 
and visit the engineer on watch for a 
minute. Along the narrow passages we 



make our way gingerly, we are unac 
customed to the close neighborhood of 
these enormous masses of metal, moving 
with admirable precision and regulari 
ty, smoothly and with gigantic force. 
There is not the shred of a uniform 
about the engineer officer as, clad in 
overalls and a " jumper," he good-natur- 




" Now and then we sight a sail." 

edly pilots us through the intricate 
maze of machinery down to the furnaces 
under the huge boilers, and shows us 
how the great fires are fed. The stok 
ers or firemen are working hard, the 
perspiration streaming from their fore 
heads. The heat is intense and the 
smell of oil and grease not particularly 
agreeable, and, although we cannot fail 
to be interested in the working of that 
force that is so untiringly and faith- 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



277 



fully propelling our noble frigate over 
the trackless ocean, under the watchful 
care of efficient and experienced men, 
we are glad to get on deck again, and 
to the cooler, fresher atmosphere above. 
The marines are putting up their swing 
ing mess-tables now and are preparing 
for supper, so wishing them bon appe- 
tit, which the hardy fellows undoubt 
edly possess anyway, let us go upon 
the spar-deck again for a tramp up and 
down as a " constitutional," before we 
in our turn prepare ourselves for the 
dinner hour, when the entire mess, with 
the sole exception of the officer of the 
deck, and possibly one of the engineers, 
assembles around the well-covered table. 
And right good fellows, too, are this little 
company of officers, hearty and straight 
forward as seamen seem to be all the 
world over, and their heartiness tem 
pered with a genial courtesy and ready 
hospitality toward the landsman, their 
messmate for the time being. 

The wardroom of the Chicago is a 
large, handsomely furnished apartment. 
The long table runs athwartships the 
entire width of the deck, and the state 
rooms of the officers, in two rows on the 
port and starboard sides aft of the table, 
open on a roomy space, well lighted and 
ventilated, and are models of conven 
ience and comfort. Stern discipline 
holds its sway, however, even here as 
well as forward where Jack swings his 
hammock, and punctually at ten o clock 
the master-at-arms makes his appear 
ance, cap in hand, and respectfully but 
firmly intimates that lights must be put 
out. An extension may be granted, how 
ever, to officers desiring to burn a light 
in their own staterooms, but those who 
are reluctant to " seek the seclusion that 
their cabins grant " as yet, or who wish 
to find consolation in the fragrant weed, 
are compelled to climb the ladder to 
the gun-deck, there to while away the 
time in the smoking corner until it suits 
them to turn in. Many a pleasant hour 
have we passed there in the society of 
one or two congenial companions, listen 
ing to the yarns and stories of many an 
exciting or humorous episode of sea-life, 
told in low tones and with the eloquence 
born of adventure. Where two marine 
orderlies keep constant vigil day and 
night, a light is burning by the enclosed 
VOL. VIII 27 



skylight hatch that ventilates the ward 
room on the deck below, and serves as 
an opening to pass up the ammunition 
for the spar-deck battery. All the way 
forward along the deck the hammocks 
of the men are swinging, and we can 
hear their deep breathing, and the mut- 
terings of some honest fellow as he 
dreams ; while close by almost over our 
heads a number of young cadets sleep 
the sleep of youth and health in their 
swinging canvas beds, undisturbed by 
our presence. Occasionally the mid 
shipman of the watch slips noiselessly 
down the companion-ladder and consults 
the barometer swinging in the passage 
leading to the admiral s cabin. 

Sometimes at this hour, when the sea 
is calm and the moon is shining, we lean 
against the machine-gun in the sponson 
and look out of the open port. Oh, the 
glory of a moonlight night at sea ! The 
sides of our ship gleam ghostly white 
against the deep blue of the water, and 
the foam, as she sends the surges bil 
lowing away from her, is bright as bur 
nished silver, and casts waves of reflected 
light up to the top of the high bulwarks, 
while the shadows of the great guns, 
thrust out of the ports, slide up and 
down on the wave-crests, or lose them 
selves in the black hollows of the seas. 
Directly ahead the ocean is a mass of 
glittering light as of electricity, while 
away off on our quarter the lamps of the 
Atlanta and Yorktown gleam brightly 
over the dark and heaving waters. Like 
some vague shape of night gliding over 
the sea seems the Atlanta, as a gleam of 
light, like a great eye opening and shut 
ting, flashes from her sides. She is 
talking to us, and the flashes of light are 
from her electric night-signals spelling 
out a message to the flagship. 

But it is the hour or two after din 
ner, when the excellent band "dis 
courses sweet music," and before tattoo 
ringing out sends Jack to his hammock, 
that to officers and crew alike are per 
haps the most pleasant of all the twenty- 
four. Everybody off duty congregates 
on the gun-deck to listen to the music, 
and to pass the time in social inter 
course before bed -time. The sailors 
gather forward of the mainmast in a 
compact mass near the band, the electric 
lights shining on their attentive faces 



278 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



and bringing them into sharp relief 
against the gloom behind them. Manly, 
honest faces most of them, from the 
wrinkled-browed, rough-bearded, weath 
er-beaten old quarter-gunner, to the 
wide-eyed, smooth-faced, curly-pated ap 
prentice; from the handsome soldierly 
marine sergeant firm mouth, shaded by 
the long military mustache drooping to 
ward the square chin to the pale, hag 
gard-eyed stoker, released for a time 
from the parching heat of the fire-room. 
The band is playing a waltz, and Jack 
and his mates are dancing together away 
forward there, by the dim light of a 
lamp, dancing with a grace, an ease, an 
elegance that many a ball-room swell 
might strive in vain to emulate. See 
the airs of that youngster there, the 
"lady" of the couple, and the coy man 
ner in which he rests on his partner s 
shoulder and points his toes out, trip 
ping lightly in the "mazes of the dance," 
and mimicking, with comical accuracy, 
the pretty affectations of some " bud " at 
her first ball, to the intense delight of 
his grinning shipmates. Or that other 
fellow there, dancing by himself in a lit 
tle cleared space, with one hand on his 
hip, the other arm raised in graceful 
curve above his head as he cuts a pigeon 
wing or glides with careless ease and 
long sliding step, like a " ballerina " of 
the ballet he is so fond of attending 
in the many ports he visits. But Jack 
is at his best in the art terpsichor- 
ean when the band having dispersed 
and the seductive strains of a Strauss 
waltz no longer urge him to fanciful 
flights of mimicry some shipmates pro 
duce a banjo or two and an accordion 
or a concertina, and the lively notes of 
a hornpipe resound on the deck away 
forward. Then he brings forth all his 
originality, agile and quick and dancing 
all over, with head, hands, body, and 
feet, stamping on the deck with resound 
ing thwack of his feet and rattling with 
his heels in rhythmic accompaniment to 
the music with the regularity and finish 
of the rolling of a drum, until, glowing 
and breathless, he gives one final spring 
into the air and makes way for another. 
With the stroke of two bells nine 
o clock the bugle sounds tattoo, fol 
lowed immediately by taps. Out go the 
lights forward, some one or two remain 



ing dimly burning, and Jack, healthfully 
tired, swings himself lightly up into his 
hammock, and, on the gun-deck silence 
reigns fore and aft. 

And so the days pass, with blue skies 
and favorable winds, and everything 
is comfortable and pleasant alike with 
officers and crew in the enjoyment of 
life at sea in fine weather. Drills of 
one kind or another are of daily occur 
rence gunnery, small-arms, cutlass, and 
revolver drills, and theoretical instruc 
tion of various natures. The chaplain 
gives a lecture to the apprentice-boys 
now and then on the geography and his 
tory of the foreign countries to be vis 
ited by the squadron. Divine service 
is held on Sunday mornings, which 
those of the crew who desire to do so may 
attend. Seated on rows of benches fac 
ing a lectern, placed on the gun-deck 
at the foot of the companion hatch, the 
men cleanly shaved and in their best 
and neatest uniforms are gathered, 
while ranged on the port side the offi 
cers group themselves ; and as the chap 
lain reads the solemn ritual of the 
church, the heads of the congregation 
are bowed in reverence, and many a 
stern face softens as a prayer goes up to 
the Almighty for the safety and wel 
fare of wife and little ones, for the dear 
ones at home. Blue skies and favorable 
winds with an occasional shower, and 
even a rainy night or two, but that does 
not take anything from Jack s comfort. 
His oilskins and sea -boots are proof 
against any ordinary wet weather, and 
he makes nothing of it, jogging along 
through the daily routine, contented and 
happy, as long as he behaves himself. 
Punishment swift, sure, and stern 
follows any misconduct on his part ; but 
take it for all in all, Jack and his superi 
ors " get on " swimmingly together, and 
the close companionship of officers and 
men, which must of necessity exist in the 
confined space of a ship of war, is pro 
ductive of a certain feeling of acquaint 
ance, not to say friendship, with one an 
other, that goes a great way toward soft 
ening the harshness of discipline. " Lor 
bless you, sir," said an old quartermaster 
to us once, when the officer of the deck 
reiterated an order in language more 
forcible and emphatic than elegant, 
" that don t mean nothing ! Mr. Blank 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



279 



is one of the finest gentlemen in the ser 
vice ; he only wants to wake the men up ! " 
However, blue skies and favorable winds 
are not always present to cheer Jack on 
his voyage across the trackless waste of 
waters ; he is frequently called on to 
battle with wind and waves for his very 
existence, and at no time does the train 
ing that fosters and develops all his 
most manly qualities, his courage and 
his skill as a seaman, show itself to bet 
ter advantage than when he is called 
upon in time of storm and danger. 

The breeze is freshening and a strong 
swell causes the ship to roll heavily. 
Although the sun shines out from the 
masses of swift-flying clouds, hurrying 
across the sky with the speed of an ex 
press train, the barometer has been stead 
ily falling, and the officer of the deck, 
walking up and down on the high bridge 
forward, the long skirts of his ulster- 
shaped great - coat flapping about his 
legs in the wind, glances often to wind 
ward, where cloud-bank on cloud-bank 
is steadily rising, and whence the wind 
comes in puffs and squalls, one stronger 
than the other. 

The vessels of the squadron are 
pitching heavily, the sister -ships At 
lanta and Boston sticking their noses 
into the waves, and apparently burying 
their forward decks under water only to 
rise again bravely and dash snow-like 
clouds of spray high over their super 
structures. Away astern, the Yorktown 
rides like a white seagull, now hidden 
almost out of sight in the deep hollows 
of the seas, anon gliding bird-like on 
their very crests, saucily bidding them 
defiance and spurning them aside. 
Stronger and more frequently come the 
bursts of wind, thicker and more threat 
ening grows the horizon to windward, 
and still our ships move steadily on under 
sail and steam. The captain is on deck, 
and a messenger boy comes jumping aft 
and, with jerk of forefinger to visorless 
watch-cap in salute, reports from the offi 
cer of the deck, that " the wind is fresh 
ening, sir ! " and the order to reef top 
sails is given. Instantly the hoarse cry 
is heard : " A-all hands reef tops ls ! " 
and the whole ship is alive in a mo 
ment. Up from below springs the exec 
utive officer, speaking-trumpet in hand, 
and takes command of the deck. The 



others follow immediately, hurrying on 
their great-coats and pulling their cap- 
peaks well down over their eyes as 
they emerge from the hatch into the 
sharp cutting wind, and the sailor- 
men come bounding up the ladders and 
run nimbly to their stations. With a 
voice that rises clear above the noise of 
the wind, that now howls through the 
rigging, the " first lieutenant " shouts 
out his orders. " Reef tops ls ! Man 
the tops l clewlines and buntlines, 
weather topsl braces ! Hands by the 
lee braces, bowlines, and halliards ! " 
The men jump to their work, quickly 
and without confusion. "Clear away 
the bowlines, round in the weather- 
braces ! Settle away the topsl hal 
liards ! Clew Down ! " The orders are 
taken up and repeated, the boatswain s 
whistle pipes cheerily ; a hundred 
brawny arms stretch at the